What All Rulers Want
by Mercator
Summary: LAST CHAPTER and epilogue (in which the last mystery is explained)- There's something strange about Lady Vetinari and Vimes is going to find out what. If those murders don't get in the way. And what's Margolotta got to do with it all? FINITO
1. Lady in the Rhododendrons

**Mysteries are so good in Ankh-Morpork, so I couldn't resist doing one of my own. You'll get intriguing questions, puzzles, riddles, action and more…promise! Disclaimer: DW is Pterry's. ** 

1. Lady in the Rhododendrons

            A porcelain bowl filled with water steamed on the bedside table. Lady Sybil Ramkin Vimes dipped in a cloth, wrung it out and held it to her nose before pressing it to the forehead of the woman lying in the great four-poster bed. 

            "Wakey-wakey," said Sybil.

            The bed creaked as she sat beside the woman, discarded the cloth and picked up a spoon sloshing with soup from another bowl.

            "Mmmmm," she said. "Soup." She blew on the spoon and tilted up the woman's chin. "Open up…"

            The woman's eyes fluttered open. She seemed to register the spoon but didn't like what she saw. She groaned. One-handed, Sybil pinched open the woman's jaw and poured the soup down. Coughs, sputters, a glare from the woman.

            "I am sorry about that but you have to eat," said Sybil. "You haven't had a thing since we found you." 

            That was two nights ago. The butler Willikins spotted something amiss when he was shutting up the windows of the house for the night. A lantern hoisted high in one hand and a long birch stick in the other, he investigated the bower where the rhododendrons grew and found something that didn't normally show up in the overgrown Ramkin-Vimes garden. A strangely-dressed woman lying unconscious and feverish in a bed of dark green leaves and fuchsia blossoms. No questions asked, Sybil had taken over caring for her. The fever was starting to abate. 

            She propped the woman up a bit more on the pillows and took the soup spoon again.

            "Chicken soup," said Sybil. "Good for what ails you." She did the forced jaw opening manoeuvre again.

            Sweating into the pillows, the woman squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fight Sybil's well-meaning but slightly painful nursing method.

            "Stop it…please…" she groaned.

            A new spoonful stopped half way to her mouth. Sybil hadn't heard her say anything understandable before. During the fever, the woman had mumbled various things in several languages. Most of it Sybil didn't understand, even when the woman threw in a few recognizable Morporkian words. They were random words like bridge, angle and budget. She thought she'd heard the woman say "schematic at ten scale," but she wasn't sure. 

            It didn't matter much. Sybil worked with sick dragons and was writing a book about their medical problems and no feverish woman whining "Stop it" was going to stop her from caring for her patient.

            "It's a jolly good soup, you'll love it," she said, pinching the woman's jaw again and pouring down a few more spoonfuls of broth.

            "No…" The woman weakly pushed Sybil's arm away, spilling soup on the comforter. 

            "Now this won't do." Sybil wiped the comforter with the edge of her sleeve. 

            The woman coughed and mumbled…

            "Havelock…" 

            The spoon clattered to the floor. 

            "What did you say?" 

            The woman turned away and curled up under the covers. Sybil touched her damp hair and wiped her forehead again with the cloth. There was a soft knock on the door and Sir Samuel Vimes, commander of the City Watch, poked his head in.

            "She awake yet?" he whispered.

            Sybil waved him in. He did it reluctantly; Vimes never liked intruding on a sick room. It made him feel like oversized people do in shops with narrow shelves full of fragile, breakable items. A false move and things could go very, very wrong.

            "She's getting better," said Sybil. "At least I got some food down her."  

            "We've got to search her pockets, Sybil. I can't find out who she is unless she volunteers the information or we get it ourselves. There's still no missing person report fitting her description."

            On the wardrobe door hung the woman's gown, which Sybil had forbidden her husband to touch. It wasn't because she had fallen in love with the gown the moment she saw it, thought that was also true. The blue silk not only shimmered, it seemed to glow, reflecting light like a gem. Silk threads were woven with strands of gold. On the back of the gown -- and this is what impressed Sybil -- a large gold dragon flicked and curled his tail as he flew through golden clouds. Golden discs were sewed on the rest of the fabric, repeated over and over, some kind of symbol inside of each that Sybil didn't recognize.

            Out of a sense of decency, she'd refused to let her husband search the gown. Private pockets were private. After two days and no missing person report, though, even she was beginning to think it was time to make a moral exception. But first things first.

            "Sam, listen. Just a moment ago, she said something."

            "This morning you said she said 'flat head screwdriver.'"

            "She did say that but there was something else. She said 'Havelock.'"

            Vimes rubbed his stubbled chin. "You're sure?"

            "There aren't too many words you can mistake that for."

            True. He couldn't think of any himself. "How many Havelocks do you suppose there are in the world?" 

            "There's only one that I know of in the city."

            Vimes examined the woman again using Copper Vision, the eye-balling of a person that when working correctly tallied all relevant details in a few seconds. 

            Age: Mid to late thirties.

            Hair: Dark brown, long, easily tangled, curls (natural?), some greys.

            Eyes: Closed. Sybil said dark brown. Long lashes, lines in the corners, shadows beneath.

            Face: Quite tan (natural?), long, peaked nose, high cheekbones, well-arched eyebrows, small birthmark on left temple, faint trace of lines on the forehead as if she often wrinkled it when perplexed, angry, etc., full lips, strong chin, ears pierced (Sybil had removed the earrings, dangling gold circles with dangling gold…dangly things attached).                 

            General: Tall, strong build, manicured fingernails, faint traces of ink stains on left fingers.

            Those were the details, which added up in Vimes' mind to a left-handed lady of means who looked vaguely foreign, maybe from one of the countries edging the far side of the Circle Sea. She'd certainly arrived dressed foreign. He'd never seen anything like the blue gold gown. He was surprised no dwarves had come battering down the door with the smell of gold in their nostrils. The thing was worth a fortune.

            So how could a wealthy lady like that turn up alone in his garden muttering about screw drivers, schematics and somebody named Havelock that he really, really hoped was not the Havelock he knew?

            "We have to search her pockets, Sybil." 

            "It just doesn't seem right," she sighed.

            "Then let's ask."

            Vimes got as close to the bed as he cared to and said, "Ma'am, do you have any objection if we search the pockets of your gown?"

            "Sam!" said Sybil, her hands on her hips.

            The woman turned over on the mattress. Vimes shrugged. "She didn't say no."

            It must be said that Sam Vimes was not a man who normally indulged in the sensual pleasures of fine fabric. If it was cold he wore wool. If it rained, he wore oiled leather. If it was hot he sweated into linen whose quality had improved since he married the richest woman in Ankh-Morpork.

            But the moment he touched the woman's gown, there were a few seconds when he forgot about locating the pockets. His fingers slid across the silk of their own accord. It was like the softest skin he'd ever felt, it was like water, it was like…

            And then he shook himself out of it and got down to business. One pocket, built inside a fold of the gown that crossed from the high collar to the left hip where it was closed with a button that looked suspiciously like a sapphire. His hand disappeared inside the fabric – he had the sensation of reaching into a cool bowl of water – and withdrew the only thing he found. A palm-sized oval an inch thick covered in red velvet. He turned the thing over in his hands, found a silver clasp on the side and flipped it open. 

            "My gods…" breathed Sybil.

            It was an iconograph, but of better quality than any they had ever seen. It was awash in colour but sharper than the imp-painted images they knew. Eerily real to life, the figures in the iconograph had crisp features and minutely detailed colour at a much wider spectrum than the 24 only the most high-priced imps could offer. In front of what looked like a backdrop of an Ephebian temple, the feverish woman was there, staring out of the iconograph with a troubled expression. Beside her, three children stood in order of height, two girls and a boy. The oldest girl was under ten years old. She gazed out of the picture with a sombre blue-eyed stare Vimes knew only too well.

            "It can't be," he said.

            "But she _looks_ so…"

            "It could be coincidence."

            Sybil put a hand on her husband's arm. "I'd think it was if she hadn't said--"

             "Havelock," the woman muttered again from the bed as if on cue.

            Vimes and Sybil stared at her. Then he fiddled a bit with the velvet picture frame and succeeded in peeling away a side of it, allowing him to slide the iconograph out and take a look at the back. 

            The woman turned over again in bed, her fists thrust under her cheek.

            Vimes and Sybil were no longer looking at her or the back of the iconograph. They were looking at each other, a shared moment of shock.

            "I better go talk to him," said Vimes. 

**

            At the Palace of Ankh-Morpork, the Patrician Havelock Vetinari, supreme ruler of the city, looked at the image for quite some time. Vimes remained standing on principle when he was in the Oblong Office, and it was a better vantage point for examining the Patrician's reaction to the iconograph. Thus far, nothing could be read on his face. It was, as he gazed at the woman and children, completely blank. 

            Vimes hadn't bothered to explain finding the woman in the Ramkin garden. He simply had himself shown into the Patrician's office and asked him if he recognized anyone in the picture.

            Finally, Lord Vetinari looked up.

             "May I ask where you acquired this, Sir Samuel?"

            "You recognize them, sir?"

            "I wouldn't say that."

            That wasn't much of an answer. Vimes sensed he was walking on a thin sheet of something slippery and potentially dangerous. He tread with care.

            "I got it from the woman in the picture."

            Vetinari dropped his gaze to the iconograph again and spoke only after a long pause.

            "Do you know who she is?"

            "Not yet, sir."

            "She won't tell you?"

            "She's not able to. Yet."

            Vimes filled in the details about the woman.

            "There are no ladies reported missing in the city?" asked the Patrician.

            "None that fit her description, sir. She had nothing else on her to help us identify her. And she hasn't said enough for us to fix whether she's even from here. She might be foreign by the look of her and her clothing."

            The Patrician levelled a mild stare at Vimes. "And what made you bring all of this to my attention?"

            Vimes knew very well the Patrician knew what had brought Vimes to his office. It stared out of the iconograph with cool blue eyes.

            "The oldest girl, there. She has a resemblance, sir. To you."

            "Does she?" The Patrician stared at the iconograph for several more long moments during which Vimes became hyper aware of the silence in the office.

            "Hm," said the Patrician.

            "Spitting image, I'd say."

            "Would you?"

            "Do you know her, or anyone else in the picture, sir?" 

            "I can't say that I do, commander." The Patrician closed the velvet case with a definitive snap and slid the iconograph across his desk. 

            "Why can't you, sir?" 

            The words were out before Vimes could stop them. There was a long, frozen silence, during which Vimes got the full brunt of the Patrician's laser glare. 

            "You know what I meant, Sir Samuel."

            He chose a paper from one of the stacks organized like a checkerboard along his desk and picked up a quill. 

            "She called your name, sir. The woman."

            Lord Vetinari glanced up.

            "Twice."

            "What exactly did she say?"

            "Just your name."

            "My first name."

            "Yes, sir."

            Vetinari shrugged. "I am surely not the only Havelock in the world."

            "You're the only one we've got around here. And there's something else."

            Vimes picked up the iconograph and slid the print out. He laid it back side up on the desk. The Patrician glanced down.

            _Isabella, Octavia (7), Antonia (5), Marco (5) _

_            Ankh-Morpork, Year 13._

            "I saw that and I couldn't help thinking, hm, that looks a lot like Lord Vetinari's handwriting," said Vimes.

            The Patrician turned the iconograph over and looked at the figures again, Isabella, the woman, Octavia the intense-faced girl Vimes said was his spitting image, Antonia with her impish smile, Marco looking off to the side as if something in the wings caught his attention. 

            "Forgery is possible," Vimes was saying, "but with that girl and the woman saying your name…"

             "You're curious, naturally. You have a curious mind." Lord Vetinari slipped the iconograph back in its frame but gazed, still, at the picture.

            "It might be a good idea if you came out to see her. Maybe she'd--"

            "I don't think that's a particularly good suggestion. When she's more talkative, she will surely tell you who she is and you can return her to her family. I don't see what help I could be."

            "Maybe she'll recognize you."

            "Many people recognize me, commander. My face is on the coinage."

            Vimes watched the Patrician calmly lift another sheet of paper, a different one from before, and settle back to read.

            "I reckon it could be coincidence," said Vimes carefully.

            The Patrician continued to read.

            "Except I've been a copper long enough not to believe in those."

            The Patrician turned the page over. "It must be fatiguing, always trying to find a plan in a series of accidents."

            "You're right about that, sir. And more often than not, I find one."

            The paper in Lord Vetinari's hand rustled in a "this discussion is over" fashion.

            Vimes turned to leave, his suspicion growing, gently at the moment, a ripple in the waters, but it was spreading. He had his hand on the door handle when the Patrician said from behind his paper, "Your curiosity is contagious, commander. I will visit at four o'clock."

            When he was alone again, Lord Vetinari set down the paper and took from a drawer a note he had received that morning. He'd read it several times already, but he wanted to do it again in light of Vimes' visit.

            _Greetings from Uberwald,_

_            Many good wishes on the occasion of your fifteenth anniversary in office, your lordship. I have sent you a very special gift, something that all rulers, at some point, want. I very much enjoyed Sir Samuel's visit and applaud you for employing such an interesting man. I would have liked more time with him. He can be very instructive. Alas, the pressures of time for mortals. My well wishes again, and I do hope you enjoy your gift. _

_With Sincerity, etc. _

_Lady Margolotta von Uberwald_

            Three months ago, Vimes had returned from the crowning of the Dwarf King in Uberwald, where he'd reported to the Patrician that he'd met the vampire Lady Margolotta. Lord Vetinari never thought of her as an old friend in the times, now and again, when he thought about her. Nor was she a rival despite her political shrewdness and control over certain parts of Uberwald. He had met her briefly in his youth, had been instructed and entertained and life had gone on. 

            By what Vimes had told him, the lady hadn't changed much over the years. Any present from her was bound to be both interesting and…unsettling.

**

            "We had a close call with you," said Sybil. "That fever was almost as tough as the Ulian Blue Spotted Fever. Dragons get that, you know. Well, if they've got an infection of any of the membranes lining the…" 

            Technically, the woman had no fever anymore but she was still on the edge enough to feel a head ache coming on from Sybil's graphic description of a disease the woman groggily hoped wasn't contagious from dragons to humans. A hot bath a few hours before had done the trick, and then a short nap, and for the first time, the woman could pull herself up against the pillows and look around with a clear head. She was in a tastefully decorated room whose furniture was rather musty, as if it had been good quality a hundred years ago but not used much since. 

            "There's tea," said Sybil after she finished her recitation on dragon fever.

            As the woman reached out for a cup, the arm of her white dressing gown flopped over her hand. It was one Sybil had found in one of the closets in the Ramkin mansion. It had obviously been worn by someone with inordinately long arms. Or so the woman vaguely thought. She pulled up the sleeve a little.

            "Thank you, Sybil."

            Sybil sat in the chair next to the bed and dropped a spoonful of sugar in her cup. Like dragons, people with fever often heard snatches of what was happening around them. She assumed the woman had heard Sam say her name.

            "You'll be back on your feet and fit as a figgin in no time," said Sybil. "You're welcome to stay as long as you need to."

            "Wonderful of you to offer, but…" the woman sighed, "I probably should go home. Especially after what I did. The other guests must have been appalled, me falling over like that. I am so sorry, Sybil. You'd planned the ball for so long and I had to go and spoil it."

            It should be said that Sybil Ramkin Vimes was pregnant. Some days she didn't feel quite, perhaps the word would be _stable_. There were chemical changes going on inside of her that she suspected were not meant to happen in a woman her age. They made her moods swing like an axe, sometimes very near to her husband's neck. 

            When she heard the woman talk about a ball, she laughed until there were tears in her eyes.

            "_Me_ plan a ball? I can barely fit into the shoes! And it'll be a bit more time before I can jolly well fit into my gowns again." The nature of Sybil's tears shifted suddenly. "As if the dresses I had didn't use enough fabric and now it's even worse. I'm swimming in double knit the size of a sail…" Sybil wiped her nose with a handkerchief she kept in her sleeve for the purpose. "Gods only knows what Sam thinks of me now."

            "Sam?" the woman asked. 

            As if on cue, Sam Vimes knocked at the door and looked in. He was surprised to see the woman upright and alert while his tearful wife was collapsed in a large heap beside her. The woman stared as he helplessly patted Sybil's back.

            "Is there a problem, captain?" she asked.         

            Sybil wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her dress again and pulled herself together. "He's not a captain anymore. It's commander now. And duke too. We're all very proud of him." She gave him a weak, tearful smile.     

            For Vimes' part, the woman's gaze reminded him of something but he couldn't put his finger on it. At least the mystery of where she was from seemed to be solved. Her accent was much the same as his wife's, a slight upper class Ankh twang.

            "Just commander will do, ma'am," he said. 

            The woman still stared at him as if she was trying to decipher a complicated code.

            "When were you promoted?"

            "Several years ago."

            "I'm not Sleeping Beauty," she said, smiling. "I haven't been feverish that long." 

            Sybil and Vimes exchanged glances. 

            "Have I?"

            "We found you lying in the rhododendrons two nights ago," said Sybil.

            "We don't usually find people passed out in our garden, so we were wondering who you are and what you were doing there," said Vimes.

            "_Your_ garden?" The woman put a hand to her forehead.

            "This is our house, it was our garden we found you in, you're sleeping in our bed and drinking our tea," said Vimes. "Which is fine with us. We'd just like to know what you were looking for out back in the middle of the night."

            The woman closed her eyes for a long moment, her hand pressing her temple. 

            Sybil, who was on the upswing of her mood, patted her arm and smiled in a friendly fashion. "Can you tell us your name? Isabella, is it? We saw it on your iconograph. I apologize on behalf of my husband for looking in the pocket of your gown. I didn't think it was a polite thing to do but I was over ruled."

            "Your…husband," said Isabella, little wrinkles etched on the skin between her eyes.  "You wouldn't just… Sybil, it's…" She looked over at Vimes. "I want to know what's happened."

            "So would I," said Vimes, taking out a notebook and pencil. "Can we have your name, please?"

            "This is ridiculous."

            "You're just a bit weak from the fever but you'll soon be right as rain," said Sybil.

            "Tell us where we can reach your family," said Vimes, "and we'll take care of the rest. Send you back in a carriage. I'm sure Sybil'll have the servants make some sandwiches for you if it's a long way." 

            "What's happened?" 

            "It's all right," said Sybil.

            "Isabella…" Vimes prompted.

            "But…" She stared at them, then shook her head. She finally said, "Capelli."

            "C-a-p-e-l--i?" The name rang a bell to Vimes, but he couldn't place it.

            "Two l's," said Isabella, rubbing her eyes. "And of course Vetinari. V-e-t-i--" 

            "I know how to spell that," said Vimes. 

            He had the sudden sensation of looking over a very steep, very slippery cliff. Below were a series of sharp and threatening looking rocks. He wished he had better boots. In his notebook, he scribbled the name and circled it a few times, tapping it with his pencil. 

            "You're related to the Patrician?" Sybil asked conversationally. "Our families have known each other for ever, really, and I haven't heard of you. Are you cousins?"

            "_What_…?" Isabella pushed the covers aside and tried to stand up, but she wavered, a hand on a bed post. Sybil had to ease her back down. 

            "This is absurd." 

            "Could you please answer Sybil's question, Miss, er, Vetinari?" 

            "It's Lady," she snapped. "Which should answer the question, capt…commander."

            Vimes suddenly remembered where it came from, the way she looked at him. The look of mild distaste that most people, but especially nobles, used to give him in the old days – and still did, to some extent --  when whiskey was his best friend, he hadn't known Sybil and he hadn't been awaiting the little bundle of joy that had him so worried he was up nights fretting about the trials of fatherhood. He felt a momentary imbalance, as if he'd stepped back in time. But Sybil was there, and this was his house…

            There was a single, brisk knock at the door. Vimes hesitated for several moments before opening it just wide enough to see Lord Vetinari in the hall. The Patrician blinked.

            "Am I to be allowed in, Sir Samuel?" He backed up a step when Vimes slipped out, pulling the door to behind him. The Patrician considered the look on Vimes' face. "Is there something you should be telling me?"

            For a split second, Vimes actually thought there was. But, he figured with a hint of malice, the Patrician would find out soon enough. He took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

            Lord Vetinari managed two steps into the room before he stopped short.

            "Sir, this is…" Vimes cleared his throat. "…the Lady Isabella--"

            The Patrician smiled politely. 

            "Capelli--"

            The smile wavered.

            "Vetinari."

            The smile dropped like a stone. Slowly, like he was approaching a curious and possibly dangerous animal, the Patrician stepped closer to the bed. Isabella turned her eyes away from him.

            "You didn't have to come," she said. "A carriage would've been sufficient." 

            The Patrician examined her for some time. Vimes inched along the wall to get a look at his face. It revealed nothing he could pin down.

            The silence in the room could've been cut with a guillotine. When the Patrician finally spoke, his voice seemed weak, as if he spoke in a vacuum.           

            "Commander."  

            "Sir?"

            "I'm afraid I can't help you here."

            "Are you sure?"

            "Quite sure. Perhaps we could speak for a moment in the hall."

            Isabella turned to the Patrician. She looked resigned about something. "I should go home, Havelock," she said. "I'm sure the children are wondering where I am and there's so much work to do." She pushed the bed clothes aside and tried to stand up again but she paled immediately. Sybil had to help her back down.

            "If you would excuse us, ladies," said Lord Vetinari, turning abruptly. With a sharp wave, he commanded Vimes to follow him into the hallway.

            Outside, he lowered his voice. "The poor creature is obviously having delusions," he said. "I suggest you contact the Capelli family and return their lost daughter."

            Vimes was capable of looking blank, revealing on his face little about his actual feelings, but the trick wasn't working then. The Patrician tapped his walking stick with irritation.

            "You look skeptical, Sir Samuel."

            "I may only be a nobleman by accident but I think that a Lady Vetinari has to be either your mother or your--"

            "I believe I said she seems to be under a certain amount of mental strain," said the Patrician slowly. "The fever must have been more virulent than it seemed."

            They stared at one another, a duel that Vimes knew he'd lose. He couldn't help it, though. The wheels of his policeman's mind, a bit worn and rusty as they were at times, turned with a suspicion he hardly knew how to name. 

            "Just so I'm sure I have this clear, sir, you have never seen her before."

            The Patrician's gaze chilled. "I thought I was clear about that, Vimes."

            "Clear as the Ankh."

            After another spell in which the two men regarded each other like snakes, Vetinari said carefully, "Her face is not familiar to me."

            "Her name, then?"

            "If I recall, the Capellis used to be a moderately successful merchant family." The Patrician gazed at the silver knob of his cane. "I'm sure they will be delighted to have their missing daughter back. As soon as possible. And now, do give my apologies to Lady Sybil. I will not be staying for tea."

            The Patrician turned and rapidly descended the stairs.

**

            Inherently dark places – cellars, mines, closets, abandoned factories, windowless, claustrophobic rooms – were the black-haired creature's favorite. Darkness gave a clarity to the mind. The forms of things from candlesticks to people wavered and faded, softened into a symphony of greys and blacks. The absence of colour, she had explained once to her lover, was one of the requirements for true peace among mankind. When skin and eyes and hair descend into shades of gray and black, no judgements about another could be made on the basis of colour. 

            It was only a theory, part of an academic discussion. The creature really had no interest in peace.

            That's why she wiped her lips with a black handkerchief she kept in her sleeve and calmly stepped over the limp and pale corpses in a cellar of a section of Ankh-Morpork she was told was called the Shades. 

            The name had attracted her. It fit her social theory.


	2. Sheets of Black

2. Sheets of Black

            The Capelli house had seen better days. It was, to Vimes' surprise, not in Ankh but was rimwards of the river in a middle class neighbourhood where the buildings were made of stone and single families lived in narrow walk-ups of two stories without having to share. The shutters on the Capelli house were worn, the windows intact but of a rather cheap glass that here and there had hairline cracks. There was a water stain down the front wall on the first floor. When Vimes pushed the doorbell, nothing happened. He had to knock.

            Mrs. Capelli answered the door herself and ushered Vimes into the parlour and fluttered around him, offering tea and biscuits. He accepted out of politeness and revealed the iconograph only after they'd chatted a while.

            A hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide.

            "It can't be…" She pulled the iconograph out of Vimes' hand and held her spectacles over it. "By the gods…it _is_ her!" She let the picture flutter to the carpet and sank down on her knees right beside it and clasped her hands to her heart. "Praise be, O Benevolent, Merciful Io!"

            "You recognize the woman, then?"

            "Praise be to him, the All-seeing, All-knowing!"

            "Praise, o praise," said Vimes to show solidarity with Mrs. Capelli. "Great god, that Io. So…Who is this woman?"

            Mrs. Capelli finally came down from her prayer and pulled herself back onto the sofa, her smile radiant, her cheeks damp. "My daughter. My dear, dear Isabella."

            From nowhere, Vimes felt a tad disappointed. When it came to Vetinari, normal policeman's instincts didn't always work, he knew, but he'd _sensed _something was there. Vimes had to accept that maybe he wanted this to be more complicated than it was. The woman in his house was obviously ill and that was all. Though the girl in the iconograph still had an amazing resemblance…

            "Sorry it took so long to contact you, ma'am," he said, getting to his feet. "We could've brought her back faster if you'd reported her missing."

            "Oh, she can't be brought back from where she is. Alas! Alas!" Mrs. Capelli fluttered herself with her handkerchief.

            Slowly, Vimes sat back down again, a little tingling sensation on the back of his neck. What did he always say to the watchmen about easy explanations? They were usually the correct ones, all right. In every day crime. Vimes didn't know if a crime had been committed, but the explanation of Isabella Capelli (and maybe Vetinari) as simply a delusional woman was, when he thought about it, too good to be true. For Lord Vetinari.  

            "Where is she?" he asked.

            "At the right side of the Benevolent Io," said Mrs. Capelli. She fetched an iconograph from the mantelpiece and showed it to Vimes. It was the woman in his house, much younger, but he could see it easily. Black hair, hooded dark eyes, a nose too prominent to be fashionable. The picture was of much worse quality than the colour one he had and more importantly, a corner of the frame was wrapped by a black silk ribbon. 

            "Your daughter is…deceased."

            "On high these fifteen years. My pride, my oldest." Mrs. Capelli hugged the photo before settling it back among the others. "Where did you a get an iconograph of her, sir? And who are those children?" 

            "It's…er…police evidence, ma'am. She didn't have a twin sister by any chance, did she?" 

            Mrs. Capelli shook her head, confused. 

            "Then could you tell me how she died…" at the distressed look on her face, Vimes said, "…went on high to the Benevolent Io?"

            "A tragedy." She blew her nose into the handkerchief. "The carriage crashed as she was travelling with her father, my dear husband, to Pseudopolis. They were both taken from me too soon." 

            Capelli, Vimes was thinking. Capelli. It had rung a bell earlier and now there was a carillon in his head. A carriage accident on the edge of city, on the Pseudopolis Road, wasn't it? He vaguely remembered being called out to help move the wreckage; the Watch wasn't good for anything else back then. A black coach, its windows tinted black, had been there as well and two bodies, horribly twisted, he remembered, were carried inside by two grim-faced men in black suits. Somebody had whispered the name Capelli.

            "How old was she?" he asked.

            "Twenty two. Such a tender age. Full of promise." Mrs. Capelli wiped her eyes.

            It was strange, the little details that came back to the memory, thought Vimes. A spotless blue ladies shoe had sat upright next to the mangled remains of the carriage, as if the owner had set it there carefully. The match was not at the scene. Presumably it was still on the corpse.

            He pulled himself back to the present.

            "Did your daughter ever meet the Patrician?"

            Mrs. Capelli blew her nose again. "Oh yes. The last reception she ever went to for the Merchants Guild. My husband Marco was secretary of the guild and introduced her to Lord Vetinari. He wasn't Patrician yet, of course."  

            Vimes didn't bother to feel triumphant that his suspicion was vindicated. He'd known they knew each other. Known it somewhere in his copper's gut. But there was a question he had to ask now, one he really, really wished he didn't have to ask.

            "Mrs. Capelli, was your daughter cremated?"

**        

            The bodies were found by the landlady, a bumblebee-stomached woman with a kerchief tied around her head. She saw them from the cellar steps and screamed and dropped the candle and ran up to get her son. He appeared then with a new candle illuminating his soiled vest and ancient, dirty boots and a face that had long given up on the general optimism of life. 

            "Dead, al'right," he said. He nudged a pale arm with the toe of his boot.

            The landlady sniffled. "I'll go call the Watch."

            Her son grasped her arm as she turned. 

            "You daft, mother? What'll they say when they see all this?"

            He held the candle up higher and it showed in its weak glow the cellar walls covered in slat wood shelving that contained, on nearly every row, a surprising range of goods that had gone missing from various households in the upper class neighbourhood of Ankh over the past year.

            The mother pointed at the corpses.

            "But they been _drained_, boy." She pulled her kerchief off her head and tied it quickly around her neck. 

            The son handed the candle to his mother and bent to lift the arms of the first body. "Thieves Guild'd get wind of us too," he said as he began dragging the body toward the cellar steps. It was an easy job. A good deal of its weight had been sapped out of it. "Go'n up and watch the door. I'll take care of these meself. And _don't_ go tellin' tales to the neighbours about vampires."

**

            Mrs. Capelli was a religious woman and religious women tended to look poorly upon anyone who suggested opening the family tomb for a look at a long dead relative. It was all the more difficult because Vimes thought it best not to admit that Isabella was staying at his home. There was a chance she was an imposter and the last thing he wanted was to entangle himself in that kind of emotional debacle. 

            In the end, he convinced her by spinning a whopper about reopening the case of the carriage accident, that the Watch regretted its former tendency to not investigate anything more complicated than a purse snatching, and that he as commander felt bound to repair old mistakes. He was proud of himself for coming up with this until Mrs. Capelli said:

            "I'm so relieved, commander. No one believed me when I said it wasn't an accident." She leaned toward Vimes, her voice lowered conspiratorially. "Those were dangerous times, the last days of Lord Snapcase. I think their deaths were political."

            It was a word he hated in all its forms. Political. Politics. Politician. 

            "Why do you think it wasn't an accident?"

            "The driver was never found."

            And there it was, the memory shoving details at the forefront of Vimes' mind again. This time it was the bright red leather cushion of the carriage driver seat. Vacant. Two unidentifiable bodies carried into the black coach. Two deaths, Marco Capelli and his daughter Isabella. No third body. No survivors. And no one had said a thing. The Watch had simply cleared the road, mindless work.

            They went together directly to the Capelli family tomb at the Temple of Blind Io. It was a relatively small affair as far as tombs went, built only two generations before and housing only the immediate family. Copses along the walls contained the ashes of the previous generations. The Capellis were practical; the eight coffins that fit on the floor of the mausoleum were reused. After twenty years or so, the remains of previous occupants were gathered, burned, and stored to make room for the new. 

            Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest of Io, stood by while two grave diggers did the honours.

            Crowbars were wedged beneath the granite lid of the coffin Mrs. Capelli identified as that of her daughter. The men heaved, the lid lifted – it had no mortar or nails because granite was a heavy enough material – and Vimes stepped a bit closer. 

            It wasn't a pretty sight. Corpses never were, but decomposition made it worse. The occupant of the coffin was better preserved than Vimes expected but that didn't soften the woozy feeling in his stomach. She – and the body was identifiable as a she only because of the gown it wore – had a skull that contained, here and there, painful-looking dents as if someone had drummed it with a hammer. The gown was white. Vimes had the uncomfortable feeling that there were small creatures underneath the fabric, writhing around out of sight.

            Mrs. Capelli dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "That was my wedding gown," she said. "We passed it down mother to daughter but Isabella was my only and I knew I'd never have another." 

            "That's definitely…her, then?" asked Vimes.

            Mrs. Capelli looked at him, puzzled. "Who else would it be?"

** 

            Lady Sybil pointed to a rhododendron bush in her garden, some of the purplish-pink blossoms crushed on the ground. 

            "My butler found you there."

            Isabella was still in a dressing gown, still had the weight of fatigue and a post-fever pallor on her face, but she'd insisted that a walk in the fresh air would help her more than another day lying in bed. She walked without Sybil's help, and the clean air of the upper class Ankh neighbourhood, on the hills above the river, did seem to make her more alert.

            She looked closely at the bush, moving a few branches aside. 

            "What time was it?" she asked.

            "About eleven in the evening. Willikins said he was locking the windows on this side of the house and heard something that made him come out into the garden. He said he practically fell over you in the path."

            Isabella shaded her eyes and looked up at the sky. It was an unusually clear, sunny day in Ankh-Morpork, where fogs and general unpleasant steams tended to waft over the city.

            "What was the weather like?"

            "Clear as a bell. Stars everywhere and a little cool. It was the first decent night in a week. Too much humidity before. I could barely sleep nights."

            "Did the dragons act in any way unusual?"

            Sybil waved toward the path that led to the dragon pens. "Now that you ask, they were quite fussy that evening. Little Snooker Featherbottom the Fourth refused to go back into his pen. Lady Ipswitch Merriweather wouldn't eat a thing, a bit of stomach trouble there, and… Yes, they were all a bit distracted." Sybil looked at Isabella. "Were you in the pens that night?"

            "No. I just wondered. Dragons are so sensitive."

            "They _are_. So many people don't realize that. They think the small ones are cute and want one as a pet and then," Sybil snapped her fingers, "snap: Lord Clooty Tembleton is far too temperamental for the kiddies, he gets dumped in the Ankh and now the poor thing gets the shakes when he sees a bucket of water."

            Isabella walked along the path, her head bowed, examining the white stones and the grass and bushes to either side. Sybil followed.

            "What was it you said was the reason you were here that night?" she asked. "Yesterday you said something about a ball, but your fever was--"

            "Oh, I must have wandered up here by accident," said Isabella. "I like to walk at night." She stopped and smiled at Sybil. "I do thank you for being such a kind hostess. I hope I'm not too much trouble."

            "Nonsense. I don't have house guests often so I'm delighted at the practice. And," Sybil patted her stomach, "I'm awaiting my first, if you hadn't noticed." She smiled shyly. "Not everyone does. With you having three children already, maybe you can give me some pointers."

            "I'd be happy to."

            They strolled for a while, talking of pregnancy, the trials of labour, what in the world to do with a baby.

            "I'd really like an instruction manual of some kind," said Sybil.

            "It's just like the rest of life; you make it up as you go along. If something goes wrong, you can only hope it isn't serious." 

            "That's not very comforting." 

            Sybil led Isabella through the rose bower, where only the sturdiest strains of roses were still blooming so late in the summer. "Your oldest girl, Octavia is it? She has an amazing resemblance to the Patrician." 

            She glanced up at Isabella, who was frowning.

**

            After the Watch meeting, Lord Vetinari sent Captain Carrot out of his office, leaving Vimes standing alone in the middle of the Oblong Office.

            "Desecrating the resting place of those who have passed on, commander?" 

            Vimes had left the temple two hours ago, long enough for Vetinari to find out what he'd done. The Patrician found out about everything, usually before anyone else.

            "I thought it was necessary," he said. "Mrs. Capelli said her daughter Isabella died in a carriage accident fifteen years ago."

            "Did you find what you were looking for?" 

            "There was a body in the coffin, if that's what you mean, sir."

            The Patrician folded his hands on the desk top. "Which leaves you with a now nameless woman in your house. A puzzle."

            "Mrs. Capelli identified her, sir. From the iconograph. She said that was definitely her daughter."

            "And what did she say about the woman in the coffin?"

            "There's no way to know if it's really her. She's wearing what her mother said she was buried in but otherwise, it's hard to identify 15-year-old corpses. She probably wasn't easy to identify back then either. There was quite a bit of damage."

            The Patrician looked thoughtful but said nothing.

            "If the woman in my house really is this Isabella Capelli, then she was never killed in the accident," said Vimes. "Or she was. Either way, someone else is buried in her coffin." 

            "In the latter instance, it would follow logically that the lady is undead, Vimes."

            "You saw her, sir. She doesn't look anything like a zombie or a vampire or werewolf or any of the other usual…things…" Vimes felt uncomfortable having much to do with the undead, though they were filling some of the mucky jobs at the Watch. 

            "Have you looked at her teeth?" asked the Patrician helpfully.

            "I sent a message to have Angua go and see her when she's off her shift." 

            "That should clear up the issue," said the Patrician

            "I hope so. There's enough evidence that she really is who she says she is." Vimes' gaze slid to the Patrician's bland one, then back to its regular place at a space on the wall behind Vetinari's head. "I took her some family pictures last night and she identified everyone. She knew some details I got from her mother about her childhood. I reckon she never died in the accident, which by the way the mother thinks wasn't an accident at all."

            The Patrician's gaze shifted minutely, as if sharpened. "What makes her think that, commander?" 

            "The driver was never found."

            "My, that is…unusual."

            "Not for the Watch back then. We didn't even bother asking where he was."

            The Patrician blinked.

            "Were you there, commander?"

            "Another coincidence, sir."

            "Then surely you saw the woman who died."

            "There was a coach there. A black one. Carried the bodies away before I got too much of a look."

            Vetinari studied Vimes' blank face for a moment.

            "You seem to consider that a telling detail, Sir Samuel."

            "The coach was there when _we_ got there. The Watch wasn't what it is today but we were fast about getting to accidents. Nobby wanted first dibs on anything he could nick. When we got there, two men were loading the coach and everything else was…tidy."   

            "And so," said the Patrician, pressing the tips of his fingers together, "we have a puzzle wrapped in a riddle."

            "I sent a copy of the iconograph to the Pseudopolis Watch to see if they can dig something up. If that's where she was headed at the time, maybe she ended up there after all."

            "A sound move." The Patrician picked up some papers and leaned back in his chair. "It's all very interesting. Do keep me posted."

            A full minute passed.

            "You appear to still be here, commander."

            "There's one more thing, sir. Mrs. Capelli said you met her daughter at a Merchants Guild reception before you took office."

            "That is possible." Lord Vetinari didn't look up from his papers.

            "It might have helped if you'd mentioned that yesterday, sir."

            The legs of the Patrician's chair thumped as they hit the floor. "I do beg your pardon, commander. My memory is quite good but not every trifling detail of my life is immediately available for recollection."

            "Can you at least recall, sir, if you only met her that one time?" 

            Lord Vetinari gave Vimes a stony frown. 

            "Now that you've refreshed my memory, Sir Samuel, yes…I can recall that. Any more questions?"

            Vimes put on his helmet. "When I've made some more progress, sir."

            The Patrician picked up his papers and settled back again. "I am delighted to help you at any time. Good day."

            He waited until Vimes had been gone for some time before leaving his office through one of the secret passages. Just like any other corridor, the passage branched off into others, one that led to a booby-trapped alley ending at the attic of Leonard of Quirm, another to the throne room, and another to what Vetinari had selected to be his private storage space. He unlocked the oak door and lit a candle. 

            The room held few things, and many, depending on how one looked at it. There was a comfortable plush arm chair and a small cabinet beside it that doubled as a writing table. The only other things in the windowless room were bookcases. These were on every wall, making the relatively large room feel cosy in Vetinari's opinion. Almost all of the shelves were full, half of them books and scrolls in his private library, volumes he preferred others didn't know he had. Many were original, single editions, ancient, rare, or just curious. About a third of the shelves contained his own works. Unexpurgated diaries, decades of them, arranged in chronological order. 

            He let a finger browse over the spines, and bent down until he found the dates he was looking for, pulled out a volume and settled with the candle into the armchair. The page he needed was about halfway through the book. Fifteen years ago, an Ember evening…

            _…vice president Dooley Paulson, treasurer Pete Longfingers, secretary Marco Capelli. Total guild membership: 23,452. Taxes paid last year: AM345,698. Politically reliable: possibly Paulson, more likely Capelli, who spoke freely against Snapcase. Level-headed, conscientious, ethical. Late 40s, owns third largest ship-building firm in AM, no foreign branches. Not inordinately ambitious, is well-respected, possibly for that reason. Wife Sandra: mid-40s, rather vain, Interested in spiritual issues, though not particularly religious. Likes gladiolas and white cake. Daughter Isabella: early 20s, well-spoken, self-possessed, interest in city planning. Claims she never loses at chess. _

            Lord Vetinari turned the pages, scanning for the next mention of the Capellis. Here and there, he encountered pages that were solid blocks of black ink, not writing, just colour. The Capellis showed up again in an entry dated about three months after the first. Two small envelopes, one sealed, one opened, were tucked between the pages. In the entry, Vetinari's usually precise and measured handwriting had changed slightly. It was more hurried, as if he wanted the next few lines to be written quickly and be done with it:

            _Merchants Guild sent word of Capelli accident this afternoon on Pseudopolis Road. No survivors.  Sent flowers to the widow, will attend funeral._

            Then there were five pages of writing that were blacked out with long brush strokes of ink.

            It was a peculiar function of Lord Vetinari's mind that he kept journals as the only outlet for expressing his private thoughts and then censored them himself. There was always the chance of his sudden death and the discovery of the journals if his clerk failed to follow his directions and destroy them. For years, the books had been his only confidante, but like humans, they couldn't always be trusted to keep quiet. Censorship in this situation was caution. Besides, he thought as he ran his fingers down the black pages, this field of night, this absence of colour was a better reminder, perhaps, of why he'd written so much that day than the actual words would have been.

            He turned his attention to the envelopes, the opened one first. 

            _Your lordship,_

_            It was pleasant to discuss certain issues with you at the Merchants Guild reception three nights ago. On the way home from the Guild hall, I noticed some structural irregularities on the Sentimental Bridge that might need to be addressed should you find yourself in a position to address them one day. If you are interested, I can forward drawings to you. If you wish to discuss this in person, I will be happy to oblige. _

_            Or perhaps we could simply play chess._

_            Yours sincerely,_

_            Miss Isabella Capelli_

            Lord Vetinari first read that note as a 29-year-old lord who spent most of his time and thoughts laying the groundwork for what would become his life's work. Ladies hadn't occupied much space in his life. He usually discouraged their attentions by remaining democratically polite to them all under all circumstances. Isabella Capelli had imitated his chilly manner at the reception, aped it almost perfectly. Their attempts to top the other's cold politeness had made for an amusing evening. 

The Patrician set the note aside and regarded the second, sealed envelope. There was no point in opening it, really. He had long ago guessed what was inside.


	3. A Loving Wife

Thanks for the reviews everyone! Great guesses by a lot of you on what's really going on but I'm dropping no hints. Stick with the story and you'll see a lot of twists and turns… (p.s. The verse throughout the story is an English translation of the work of Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, in my opinion the best poet of the 20th century in any language. I hope his spirit – and the Neruda estate – forgive me and Isabella for being inspiring by it.)

3. A Loving Wife

            As usual, two things were happening at once. More than two things, of course, if one counted the million souls in Ankh-Morpork and the million bits of mischief they got themselves into at any given moment. In the Ramkin-Vimes House, more than two things were happening if the dragons and servants were counted. For the moment, they weren't. 

            First, the dining room.

            Isabella Capelli (Vetinari) sat by the open window picking at the roast beef and green beans on her plate. Lady Sybil chattered in an attempt to improve her guest's mood but it didn't seem to be working. Isabella wasn't really listening. It wasn't rudeness on her part. There was something else going on in her head. 

            Inspiration streamed into the purple paisley dining room and resonated in Isabella's fragile mind. It had always happened, sometimes in words but mostly in drawings of impossible monuments – bridges spanning great bodies of water with steel beams and cables  hanging suspended in the fog; tunnels submerged in water where carriages passed without getting wet, buildings of glass with spires that pierced the clouds.

            Today, it was words.

            She set down her fork and looked at her hands.

            _By the skin of my reason, with my fingers,_ (she was thinking) / _with slow waters indolently swamped, / I fall to the imperium of the forget-me-nots, / an unforgiving air of mournfulness, / a decayed, forgotten hall / and a cluster of bitter cloves._

            There was no way Sybil's chatter about the first baby dragon bred at the Sunshine Sanctuary for Sick Dragons could compete with this. Isabella daydreamed poetry only in moments of deepest stress, sadness, fear or fatigue. With all four encasing her like a suit of armour, the inspiration rained down, blotting out everything but her hands clasped in her lap.

            The other thing happening at the Ramkin-Vimes House was taking place on the other side of the dining room window where Isabella sat. It faced the garden.

            Sergeant Angua leaned against the wall of the house just to the left of the window,  arms crossed, eyes closed, breathing deeply. She didn't need to see Isabella; a werewolf's gift was in the nose. Angua's functioned well even when it wasn't that time of the month. Nearby, Vimes chewed on an unlit cigar and wondered how Angua could have a nose for anything but the roast. It was making his mouth water.

            "What do you think?" he whispered.

            "It's…strange, sir."

            "Strange, how?"

            Angua turned her head to more effectively use the direction of the wind.

            "I can't quite place it."

            Angua's nose was usually reliable when no slaughterhouses, strong peppermints or other distracting scents were around. The puzzled look on her face was not what Vimes wanted to see. He wanted answers about Isabella Capelli so-called Vetinari, not more questions. _She_ certainly wasn't offering much. She'd been up and about all day, had listened calmly as he told her about what her mother had said about a carriage accident, had denied knowledge of it but otherwise…nothing. 

            "Let's start with an easy one," he said to Angua. "Is she a werewolf?"

            "I don't think so, sir."

            "That's not very helpful, sergeant."

            "You can wait until full moon."

            "By then, I want her back where she belongs, wherever that is. If she doesn't smell like a werewolf, what does she smell like?"

            "Just…" Angua took another deep sniff, then shook her head. "…wrong." She sighed. "I'm sorry I can't help you more, sir."

            Vimes was irritated enough to bite the end off his cigar and spit it noiselessly to the ground. He hadn't considered that Angua's verdict would be inconclusive. 

            "What would make someone smell wrong?" he said.

            "If I change, I might be able to tell you more. Every smell has a special colour, but I can only see it when I'm on all fours."

            Vimes nodded and waved toward a clump of bushes up the white gravel path. 

            The bushes rustled as Angua took off her armour as quietly as she could, then began on the few bits of clothing that were left. Vimes kept his eyes chastely on the other side of the garden. After a minute or two, the rustling stopped.

            A sleek, blond wolf emerged from the bushes and paused in the path, nose in the air, gauging the wind. Experience had taught Angua to change at will, though it was not an enjoyable experience. She padded up to the window, pulled herself up on the wall with her front paws and let her nose hover just below the sill. 

            Minutes passed. 

            Then slowly, silently, she bared her teeth.

            "Angua!" Vimes hissed.

            She dropped down from the wall and trotted back to the bushes. Angua emerged a few minutes later, concentrating on her humanness, pushing the wolf down and away.

            "I've never seen anything like it, sir," she said.

            "What?"

            "Everyone has a smell that werewolves see as a colour and the range is infinite. Every colour is individual. But your house guest's is different." 

            "She doesn't have her own colour?"

            "Just the opposite. She has too many." Angua frowned. "Sort of."

            Vimes had an inkling that he wasn't going to like where this was going.

            "How many?"

            "I'm not very good at counting in wolf form," said Angua, embarrassed. "I lost count at about a hundred."

            "What does that mean, sergeant?" 

            "I don't know exactly. The basic colour was a kind of sapphire blue, that was clear. And then it just… It's a cloud, sir, or something like a…a fog. Everybody has it. Except that hers seemed to…change." 

            "Change as in blue to yellow, or what?"

            "It stayed blue but the shade was always changing. You know like when you see a bit of oil on the cobbles after a rain, the swirls and reflections can be seen? It was like that, but all of the shades swirled around the basic sapphire."           

            This was not how Vimes imagined the little experiment would turn out. It was a simple question -- Was this Isabella alive or undead? – but even that seemed to stump Angua's normally reliable nose. As they crossed the garden, Vimes noted that his list of questions about Isabella was getting too long for his liking.

            Angua paused at the garden gate. 

            "When I was changed, I was thinking that she had more colours than I could ever smell," she said. "She's not like the undead, sir, and not like other people either." 

            "What is she, then? An elf? A demi-goddess?"

"I don't know." Angua looked back toward the garden window. "If anything, I'd say she's too alive."

**

            Ah…the Shades! The dark-haired creature wandered through the malodorous, twisted streets in the same way she might traipse through a field of dandelions, were she the traipsing type. At night, the neighbourhood was glorious. Creatures of all kinds on certain streets, spilling out of bars and houses of negotiable affection; other streets deserted, swept clean of everything but refuse from the day. 

            She followed her nose to a pub that had no sign, but the head of a troll hanging over the door. There were others of her kind there. It was a good sign. After a moment examining the choices, she slipped into a booth next to a pale, thin man who nursed a drink with his fingers but didn't taste it.

            "Greetings, brozer," she said.

            He slid his eyes toward her but said nothing.

            "Vhat are you drinking?" she asked, pointing at his cup.

            "Vodka," he said.

            She smiled at the black ribbon tied around his arm, sign that he had given up a diet of human blood. Most vampires in Ankh-Morpork had done this, and those who didn't got their meals by arrangement so as not to upset the populace.

            "How does it taste?" she asked.

            "Terrible."

            They smiled at one another, and she guessed by his scent he hadn't been a Black Ribboner for long. At least his incisors hadn't been sawed down, as some of the more radical of the group did. It was a controversial theme. Some thought the elimination of fangs was a denial of the species, while others saw it as a move that symbolized a New Way of Life.

            "My name is Klieg," she said. "I am sure you have guessed I am new in ze city. I vould like to see ze sites."

            "Velcome." He held out a hand. "Call me Beber." They shook hands and after they were finished, Klieg didn't let go. 

            "I am alone here, Beber," she said. "I have novhere to go vhen ze sun rises."

            He stared at her hand, then her eyes. "Ve are not so organized here as ze dwarfs," he said. "Zere are no temporary homes for newcomers. Ve must…" Klieg slid closer to him, as if eager to listen to what he had to say. "…take care of our own."

            "Zat is a vonderful sentiment," she said. "Ve must take care of our own. I have alvays believed zat." She leaned closer. "Do you?"

            If Beber had been a human, he might have been unsettled by her smile. He wasn't, so…he wasn't.

            "Yes, I believe zat as vell."

            He kissed her hand.     

**

            Vimes had lifted a fork full of roast to his mouth before he realized he was still biting down on his cigar. He set it on the bread plate and tucked in, famished despite the disappointment in the garden. 

            Sybil had already cleared her plate once and was starting on a third helping of green beans. Her recent consumption of green beans had reached alarming levels, the latest in her pregnancy cravings. Isabella ate very little before Vimes arrived and nothing at all after he sat down. She watched him as if it was still a surprise to sit at the same table with him.

            He did notice what she was wearing, though. Not the gown they'd found her in, which was far too elegant for a simple evening. Sybil had gone shopping with her that afternoon and found several gowns, bought them for her actually, since she had no money. This one was dark blue with a scooped neckline. It was not anything Vimes would have paid too much attention to if earlier Sybil hadn't told him to pay attention to it. So he tried, without looking too obvious.

            It was difficult; he was burning to ask where in the world she'd gotten that kind of scar. It was just below her left shoulder, an inch across, a pink-brown line on her skin. A few times he almost asked. But there was something about her face, the faraway look, as if she was somewhere else completely. She made the little noises that showed she was listening with one ear to what Sybil was saying, but she added nothing to the conversation. 

            The resonance still played with her.

            _It is because I am myself faced with your colour of world,/ with your pale dead shoulders, / your gathered hearts, /your silent multitude._

            Sybil's voice finally died away, the forced cheerfulness drowned under Isabella's stubborn mental absence. She looked helplessly at Vimes. He washed down his bite of potatoes and made a show of setting the glass down too hard. The chime of it hitting the edge of his dinner plate seemed to wake up Isabella. She blinked.

            "Was just wondering," said Vimes, "about that nasty scar you got there." He tapped the space below his own shoulder.

            Isabella looked down and rubbed her eyes for a moment, pulling herself back.

            "A gonne shot," she said.

            Vimes and Sybil glanced at each other. As far as they knew there was only one gonne in the world and that had been fired in public on, of all things, their wedding day.

            "What happened?" he asked.

            "I was in a carriage with the Patrician when Dr. Cruces fired on us. Both of us were hit once."

            Vimes knew about that already. He'd lived it. Captain Carrot had jumped into the carriage first, taking the second lead pellet meant for Lord Vetinari. Vimes had reached the carriage when it was already collapsed. It had all happened fast, but he was certain there hadn't been a woman around. Certainly no Lady Vetinari.

            "That must have hurt like the devil," Sybil offered.

            "The pellet missed my lung by a sliver. A difference in the wind that day and I would have been…dead." 

            It was a word guaranteed to spoil any dinner. Vimes gave up on the rest of the food on his plate and went back to his cigar. Sybil got up to make a last round of the dragons. Isabella followed her and Vimes followed Isabella out to the stables. 

            In the warm summer evening the dragons were lolling around in their pens trying to stay cool. They had an internal heating mechanism in their stomachs that made most of them more suited to cold, damp, swampy areas. Ankh-Morpork in winter was perfect. In summer, the dragons got a bit fussy. When they saw and smelled Sybil, they lumbered to their feet, snorting and squealing. They expected a bit of a snack before bed.

            When they smelled Isabella, the dragons fell silent. Reptilian eyes watched her every move. Vimes wasn't normally as attuned to dragon moods as his wife, but even he felt it. They seemed to be waiting for something to happen.

            Isabella stood in the center of the stable, turning slowly, looking at the dragons looking at her. A young dragon with yellow eyes and wiry black whiskers on his chin took a running start, flapped his wings hard enough to get some upward motion going and landed on the top bar of his pen.  

            "Bagglesworth!" scolded Sybil.

            The dragon balanced on his claws, his wings still out, and stared at Isabella. She took a step toward him.

            "I'm not going to hurt you," she said quietly. She held out her hand.

            Bagglesworth took a deep breath.

            "Oh, no you don't!" cried Sybil.

            She leapt at the dragon just as Vimes leapt at Isabella and pulled her out of the way of a weak but still relatively effective stream of fire. They landed on a heap of straw. 

            Fearless, Sybil scooped up Bagglesworth and showed him the streak of carboned straw on the ground where Isabella had stood.

            "Look at that! Bad dragon! Bad Bagglesworth! No dessert for you!" She hauled him back into his pen and gave him a glare that made him waddle backward until he hit the back wall and fell over. He was a reptile of sorts but he managed to look stung. He didn't know what he'd done wrong.

            Isabella and Vimes were picking straw out of their hair.

            "I don't know what got into him," said Sybil. She helped brush off the back of Isabella's skirt. "Bagglesworth is normally so peaceful. And it's certainly not mating season."

            "No harm done," said Isabella. She gave Vimes a smile. "Thanks for saving me, commander. Having my face burned off would be the least of my problems but why add to the list?" She held out a hand.

            Vimes shook it. 

            Dragons are sensitive buggers, he was thinking. Did Baggleworth sense something in Isabella that he and Sybil couldn't? He patched the dragon's reaction in with Angua's and ended up with some conclusions he wasn't all that happy about. Apparently Isabella wasn't dead and wasn't undead but she was too alive and giving off whatever…signals…would make a normally friendly dragon haul off and spit fire. He'd heard dragons didn't like elves much. Or witches. He had no idea what they thought of demi-goddesses, fairies and other not quite discly creatures. At this point, Vimes was beginning to consider every possibility as to Isabella's identity.

            She pointed at Vimes' cigar. It smouldered between his teeth. Bagglesworth's breath had been a closer call than he thought.

            "I'd love to have one if you could spare an extra," she said.

            He patted his pockets and came up empty. "I've got some more in the study if you want to come along."        

            Vimes' study was about as organized as the streets in the Shades and just about as clean. He'd inherited it from Sybil's father, who'd preferred the hunting lodge look, but the antlers were now in the cellars and various hazy iconographs of  Ankh-Morpork city scenes were attached to the paisley wallpaper with carpet tacks. 

            As Vimes looked around for a fresh cigar, Isabella examined the creased and pencilled city maps he kept on a large table that Lord Ramkin had used as a display area for his favorite crossbows. She frowned at the first map, whipped it off the table and looked closely at the second. After a few moments, she moved on to the third. She looked perplexed as she lit her cigar but she seemed to calm as soon as she took a few long puffs. She started browsing the iconographs on the walls.

            In Vimes' opinion, it was the perfect opportunity to get some information out of her. He _had_ saved her from Bagglesworth.

            "I reckon me preventing you from getting scorched is worth a few answers to my questions," he said.

            "I'd be rather ungrateful if it wasn't," said Isabella.

            Vimes leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed. 

            "Let's clear up the basics. Are you, in fact, dead?"

            "Not that I know of."

            "Are you undead?"

            "Can't help you there either."

            "Are you a member of some other non-human and possibly mythological species?"

            "I wish I was. Zap! With my magic wand and everyone would remember me again."

            Isabella stared hard at an iconograph of the New Bridge, the oldest bridge in the city. She pointed at it and turned to Vimes.

            "This hasn't been rebuilt yet?"

            "I won't argue that it doesn't need it. A shop for," Vimes coloured, "preventatives crumbled into the Ankh last week."

            "I knew that," she said thoughtfully. "There were Sonky-shaped holes in the river that I heard some of the local boys…" She put a hand over her smile. "Never mind."

            Vimes hurriedly got back to the main line of questioning.

            "Let's assume that you're alive--"

            "Thank you."

            "What makes you think you're Vetinari's wife?"

            "Because I am."

            "He hasn't got one."

            Isabella paused at a snapshot of Pseudopolis Yard. A very large, dark finger obscured the bottom left side.

            "How do you know he hasn't got one, commander?"

            "I haven't seen one."

            "Maybe he keeps me and the children locked up in the Palace dungeon and I escaped but only made it to your garden before I collapsed from fatigue and the grief of leaving my children in the clutches of the guards."

            Isabella calmly blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. 

            After some consideration, Vimes said, "Even Vetinari isn't that big a bastard."

            "Oh, he is, but he's not that heartless. There's a difference." She smiled like she'd made an inside joke.

            "You're not exactly talking like a loving wife," said Vimes.

            The smile vanished.

            "It's easier to be a loving wife when there's a loving husband around." 

            She turned abruptly to a group iconograph of the Night Watch. Vimes was in the center, looking much thinner, scruffier and generally pessimistic. He scowled straight out of the picture while a misfit collection of watchmen posed heroically or mugged the camera. 

            "Looks like marriage suits you," she said. 

            "Well, yes…"

            "How long has it been? A couple of years?"

            "We aren't talking about my marriage."

            "Thirteen years for me, commander. Some people believe that number is cursed. I'm beginning to think so too."

            She eased herself into a chair.

            "What did Havelock have to say besides that he didn't recognize me?" 

            "He thought you might be--"

            "Let me guess. He used the phrase mental strain, didn't he?"

            Vimes nodded.

            "I can't actually deny that. My husband thinks I'm delusional, my friend Sybil doesn't know me, my mother believes I'm dead, and the Watch commander I knew of as captain felt it necessary to ask me what species I am." 

            "That was--"

            "It's all right," she sighed. "I keep feeling this is the most gigantic practical joke ever played. I have to believe that because the alternatives are even worse. Thank goodness I'm not the type of person to doubt my own sanity. Of course, I realize that might be the first sign of mental illness."

            Vimes was usually an observant person, though his observations at times kicked him in the memory minutes, hours or even years after the fact. This time, he observed and processed all at once: Isabella's hand, the one holding the cigar, was shaking. The ash fluttered to her skirt but she didn't bother to brush it off. Her other hand was clenched in a fist in her lap. Vimes had the sensation of looking at a vase teetering on the edge of a table. It could settle again on its own or could fall and shatter. The outcome was uncertain but the imbalance was there. 

            She set her cigar aside and went to the map table, where she turned the top sheet over to its blank side. She found a pencil and looked at it for a moment with a puzzled expression before switching hands and beginning to draw. Vimes watched her from his desk for a while, then out of curiosity went closer. Her hand moved quickly, drawing perfectly straight lines and elegant curves until it was clear what she was drawing. 

            Clocks throughout the house chimed, signalling an hour come and gone.

            Isabella expertly rolled up the paper. "Will you take this to the Patrician tomorrow?"  

            Vimes nodded. It wasn't necessary to mention that he was going to take a good long look at the drawing himself before he handed it over to Lord Vetinari. Once the Patrician got a hold of it, he probably wasn't going to give it back.

            Isabella rubbed her eyes. "And let us make fire / and silence / and sound / and let us burn / and be hushed among bells."

            She didn't realize she'd spoken aloud until she saw Vimes looking at her.        

**

            That night, Klieg took care of Beber with a sharpened wooden table leg she kept hidden under her cloak for such purposes. She wasn't completely heartless, though; they prowled the night a bit first, she located a delicious pauper orphan of about ten years old that Beber couldn't stand to watch without tasting himself, throwing off his black ribbon in animal triumph. He took Klieg back to the cellar he rented in a stinking neighbourhood by the river and made love to her before she thrust the stake into his heart.

            Then she consulted the "Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork" and visited the top sightseeing tips. First was the peak of the Tower of Art, where the city spread out below her like a filthy, termite-ridden jewel. Then off to Mad Lord Snapcase's cruet set on Upper Broadway. The matching salt and pepper shakers built by Bloody Stupid Johnson were big enough to house a few families and some of the winter grain supply. They looked wonderfully phallic to Klieg. Last for the evening was the Ankh-Morpork Opera House which was closed, though she did get in through the roof to get a look at Bloody Stupid's organ.

            Quite a jam-packed night. 

            Klieg returned to Beber's cellar all tuckered out. Now that she had a home base in the city, she could relax a bit. Let her hair down. There was her mission, yes. She wouldn't forget that. But there was time. She was a vampire for goodness sake. If there was one thing she had, it was time.

            Yawning, she eased herself into Beber's coffin and closed the lid. Ankh-Morpork was everything she thought it would be. She was quite enjoying herself already. 


	4. Usque ad mortem

4. Usque ad mortem

            All of the Patrician's days were eventful, if an avalanche of reports, memos, appointments and meetings constituted events. It was an administrative busyness, a sit-behind-a-desk kind that suited the Patrician's nature. He liked work that could be ordered in a nice series of notations on his daily planner, which he normally kept not on paper, but in his mind. 

            Ankh-Morpork was an eventful city, but it was not chaotic. The Patrician had seen to that. The city might bob and sway as if it threatened to tilt over the edge of a cliff but the Patrician was the little jagged outcrop of stone inserted in just the right place to keep the city from falling into the abyss. 

            Order and balance and precision were beautiful things.

            And so, when Commander Vimes showed him what Isabella had drawn the night before, the Patrician looked on something beautiful. It was not a piece of art in the normal sense, though Lord Vetinari would not have hesitated to frame it and give it a place of honour on a wall if it wouldn't have been at the same time an incredibly foolish thing to do. Like advertising the key to a code.

            He brushed the surface of the paper lightly with his fingers.

            "How closely did you look at this, Sir Samuel?"

            "Close enough to see that she knows this Palace like the back of her hand, sir," said Vimes. "I'd never seen a floor plan of it before."

            "Until now, none existed." 

            The Patrician was not being entirely honest about that. One floor plan of the ancient, rambling Winter Palace of Ankh-Morpork did exist but he kept it in his private library. It was six hundred years old, a scroll that would have long crumbled to dust if some one in previous generations hadn't treated the paper with a resin-like substance that acted as a preservative. The Palace had been altered many times since then, but the drawing under the Patrician's hands obviously incorporated elements of the old scroll with Palace architecture at its current standing. This was no small task, since the Palace was a nest of rooms and hallways and secret passages so complex that few individuals had a grasp of the building as a whole.

            "How long did it take her to do this?" asked the Patrician.

            "About an hour."

            "She consulted no books? No other…schematics or drawings?"

            Vimes shook his head. "Looked like she was taking dictation, sir. She didn't even need to erase anything as she went along."

            "Remarkable." 

            Vimes had spent the last half hour explaining the rest of the discoveries he'd made, what Angua had told him and what Isabella herself had said. He couldn't remember the exact wording of the verses she recited, but when he mentioned "let us make fire" the Patrician looked startled for a moment.

            He studied the floor plan again. "Perhaps it's time I ask the lady to oblige me with a visit," he said without looking up. "Will you arrange it, commander? I have a full schedule today so let us say…nine o'clock."

             "Would you like me to be there too, sir?"

            "Perhaps the lady will be more forthcoming if we are alone. I assure you, Sir Samuel, I shall give you a full report afterward."

            As Vimes left the Oblong Office, he seriously doubted that. If he was going to get any answers on this case, he had to look for them himself, that was clear. He thought back fifteen years, which meant jumping over a hazy period dominated by a pesky whiskey problem, and tried to remember anything he could about Vetinari before he became Patrician. There was nothing much. It was hard to think that Vetinari had ever been a civilian.  

            Outside the Palace, Vimes started the stroll back to Pseudopolis Yard in a thoughtful mood. He wondered if there were any old Vetinari servants about. Any who would talk quietly. First rule of police work: If you need information, go to the servants. He lit up a cigar and let his feet swing into the easy-going policeman's gait. Nobby and Fred were at the accident scene with him all those years ago, weren't they? Maybe they remembered something…

**

            After dark, Corporal Nobby Nobbs and Sergeant Fred Colon were enjoying the warm summer night by tramping around on patrol. It was just like the old days when the Watch's responsibility was to ring the bell and declare all's well -- contrary to all evidence.

            They  saw no need to endanger themselves by going into the Shades so they stuck to friendlier areas where here and there a street lantern was still lit. Only reluctantly did they approach a crowd of people milling around outside of a worn wooden house on Cable Street.

            "The Watch!" someone cried, stating the obvious since Nobby and Fred were wearing armour and helmets. They looked a bit embarrassed by the accusation nevertheless.

            "What's going on?" said Fred.

            "Dead body!" said a bystander.

            "Murder!" 

            Fred Colon had spent most of his life in the Watch and wasn't about to get upset about a cry like that. Morporkians had a habit of exaggeration. 

            "Somebody nipped a bit too much of the…" He made the drinky-drinky gesture with his hand.

            "It was a vampire!" hissed someone else in the crowd. 

            Nobby and Colon looked at each other. Nobby waved to the doorway of the house. "After you, sarge."

            The ground floor was a shop, a potter's workshop, to be exact. The front was full of glazed and unfinished white ceramic pots and plates and tiles on shelves and tables. Through a corridor, a pottery wheel could be seen. Nobby and Colon had to push their way through the crowd of people standing around quietly in the workshop, and this put them on edge more than anything else. Morporkians got quiet only in certain situations, most of them ones to worry about. The people looked stricken, shocked. 

            Colon led the way up a wooden stairwell and followed the sound of someone weeping to a small room he could barely squeeze into even if there hadn't been people crowding the narrow doorway. Once he got through, he wished he could get out again.

            "Gods," he said. He turned away and said it again just as Nobby got a look, his splotchy face paling.

            The weeping came from a woman. She knelt on the floor of the room, her hands helpless at her side. Two silent, round-eyed children knelt beside her. There was one bed in the room and it contained a naked man. He was collapsed, pale, withered. Empty. Someone had been brave enough to close his eyes.

            "Vampires!" the woman cried out suddenly.

            The children started screaming.

            It seemed to break the spell. The room emptied rapidly, people carrying Nobby with them and down the stairs and back out into the street.

            They were chanting it now – Vampires! Vampires! -- and the look of shock melted off the faces and was replaced by hard determination. Knives flashed as they were drawn from boots and sleeves. Nobby looked around helplessly as the people scattered, taking the chant into the streets. Then he ran for the nearest watchhouse.

            From her perch in the shadows of the eaves of the house opposite, Klieg brushed her dark hair off her shoulder and turned a page of the "Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork." She flattened the book on her knee and undid the folds. It was a fold-out map of the city. Very convenient. She wasn't quite sure if she wanted to pop into Unseen University next or go check out the Slaughterhouse District. So much to see. So much to do. She turned to the book's index and looked up "S."

            Below her, the little people took her warning to the city.           

**

            Isabella wore her hair in a single, long black braid, thick as a rope, and her dress was the colour of rust. From his desk, Lord Vetinari watched her closely, examining her profile when she turned to thank Vimes for escorting her to the Oblong Office. He observed her face as she stared around the room, at the floor, the ceiling, the furniture. She hugged herself a little. Cold, perhaps. Or frightened. The first was unlikely considering the late summer warmth. 

            Without a word, he approached her quickly and grasped her hand. Cold after all. The nails were clean and short, like she had more important things to do than cultivate the luxurious finger nails many ladies had. There was a simple gold band on her fourth finger. So close he caught the faint scent of soap on her, plain and refreshing, and he saw the fine lines around her eyes and the darkness of the iris and he felt in his hand her fingers warming, as they should. 

            Surely, she wasn't undead. 

            But it _was_ her.

            He released her and waved at a chair at the conference table.

            She sat and looked at him with a patient expression on her face. Lord Vetinari propped his elbows on the table, pressed his hands together and gazed at her over his fingertips.

            Five minutes passed in silence.

            Then he leaned back in his chair with a sigh. 

            No significant event happened in Ankh-Morpork without it causing trouble for him eventually. It was a basic world view that usually served him well. If something happened and it turned out to be benign, he could be happy that say, a seemingly innocent invention to automatically shine shoes didn't create the right environment for creatures from the Dungeon Dimensions to start stalking the streets and eating people. Just like anybody else, Lord Vetinari liked to be happy. The less trouble in the city, the happier he was.

            Unfortunately there was always trouble somewhere. Happiness for him was usually only found in the few minutes between waking up in the morning and reading the first dispatch over coffee about something terrible happening somewhere that he'd have to fix. 

            Even those few moments of ignorant bliss had been denied him since seeing Isabella at the Ramkin-Vimes House. There were certain parts of his life that he assumed would one day bite him in the figurative back side. It was all right. He expected it. 

            But not this.

            Explanations for what had happened to bring things to this point collated themselves in his mind. He chose one.

            "It wasn't Pseudopolis," he said. "Neither my agents nor the Watch can find anything there about you. There is nothing in Quirm. Nothing in the other plains and coastal cities. You can save me the necessity of searching in a wider radius if you simply tell me where on the Disc you've been."

            "You recognize me after all."

            He nodded.

            "Why wouldn't you speak to me at Sybil's?"

            "That was sadly necessary. Commander Vimes can get such ideas in his head. If he took my fingerprints himself he would still accuse me of giving him the wrong impression." He smiled briefly and brushed the topic aside with a wave of the hand. "Genua, perhaps. You went back to your family there?"

            "No, Havelock."

            "Ephebie."

            "No."

            "Uberwald."

            "Why do you think I went anywhere?"

            "You were a clever girl but not quite up to the task of hiding from me in my own city for fifteen years."

            "Apparently I'm dead."

            "In that case you are extremely well preserved."

            A smell of rotting potato peels drifted up from the floor at the foot of Isabella's chair. 

            "Wuffles!" she cried, holding a hand out to him. "_You_ recognize me, don't you?"

            The Patrician's elderly white Morporkian terrier was known more for his unpleasant odour than his sociability. He peered up at Isabella through crusty eyes, slowly touched his nose to the palm of her hand and then…

            He wagged his tail. It was no ordinary wag. The entire back half of his body bent back and forth in such a way that if he wagged any harder he'd spin himself in a circle. He let out a yipe, licked Isabella's hand quickly, and backed away from her a little, his rear dragging across the carpet, his tail still flapping excitedly like a flag on a windy day.

            Laughing, Isabella dropped onto her knees and scooped him up and kissed him on the face. He let out another yipe accompanied by a cloud of doggy breath.

            It seemed to the Patrician that he was watching a reunion. As far as he knew, dogs never forgot a scent. Whatever Sergeant Angua and the dragon Bagglesworth had detected in Isabella obviously didn't matter at all to Wuffles. Lord Vetinari had a good idea why.

            "Wuffles!" he commanded.

            Reluctantly, the dog wriggled out of Isabella's arms and did the rear-end drag across the carpet to his master. 

            "Sit," said the Patrician.

            Wuffles stopped wriggling at the foot of his chair.

            "Stay."

            The dog whined a little. Isabella brushed white fur off her dress and went back to her seat.

            Lord Vetinari gazed at her thoughtfully, shuffling explanations for her presence in his mind. He chose another.

            "How did you come to find yourself in Lady Sybil's garden?"

            "I fainted apparently."

            "That doesn't answer the question."

            "Sybil had put on a ball as a big fundraiser for the Sanctuary. The air in the ballroom was getting too stuffy so I took a walk."

            "Was your husband there?" 

            Isabella leaned forward. "If we aren't married, why do you recognize me? You knew me before this carriage accident, didn't you?"

            The Patrician ignored her question. "Was the weather out of the ordinary that night? Lightning, thunder, strange-coloured storms?"

            "How did we meet?"

            "Were there any wizards at the ball?"

            "Did we meet at the Merchants Guild reception or somewhere else?"

            "Witches, perhaps? Or a sourcerer?"

            "Why didn't you want Vimes to know you knew me?"

            Wuffles whined. The Patrician paused, shuffled the explanations in his head, then shifted gears again.

            "How old is the iconograph?"

            Isabella took it out of her pocket and slapped it on the table in front of him. "How old do you think it is?"

            Still whining, Wuffles eased his way back to his bed. He watched them from the shelter of the Patrician's desk. Lord Vetinari waited patiently for Isabella to answer.

            "It's six months old," she said finally. "It was supposed to be a family sitting but one-fifth of the family was too busy to attend."

            The Patrician opened the frame and looked at the iconograph again.

            "The twins are--"

            "Different from Octavia, I know. They take after me completely but they're still yours. This isn't the moment for that old joke."

            Humour was not on the Patrician's mind either. He pushed the iconograph back at Isabella and locked her in one of his blue steel gazes. He pressed on with another explanation.

            "Did you know the men who took you away from the scene of the accident?"

            "I don't remember any accident. It seems the type of thing I'd remember if it happened to me."

            "A gap in the memory is possible." 

            "I have no memory gaps."

            He shuffled the explanations and shot down another path.

            "Are you here of your own accord or were you sent?"

            Isabella left her chair. She waved at one of the walls of the office.

            "How do I know about the secret passages?"

            "Miss Capelli, I would be grateful if--"

            "What about your desk?"

            "I suggest that you--" 

            "Bottom left drawer, locked, booby-trapped, various currencies, _in-sewer-ants_ papers and a few of Leonard of Quirm's more alarming drawings in a metal box. Middle left drawer, locked, classified files, top left drawer, unlocked, unclassified files, secret drawer above top left, booby-trapped, classified letters…"

            The threat-laced intensity of the Patrician's stare faded.

            "…bottom right drawer, locked, treats and toys for Wuffles, middle right drawer, unlocked, blank writing paper, top right drawer, unlocked, unclassified letters and files, secret drawer above top right, bobby-trapped, knives and --"

            He swept up to her and grasped both her hands.

            "Please calm yourself. We shan't get anywhere if we begin this like a wrestling match." 

            He held up a handkerchief. Isabella snatched it away and dabbed it angrily at her eyes. 

            "I believe you are thinking of a verse," said the Patrician.

            She glanced up at him, the handkerchief crushed in her fist. "If you're not my husband, how do you know me?"

            He held up a finger.

            "The verse. Say it."

            She shook her head.

            "Please. I would like to hear it."

            "Tell me what's happened, Havelock."

            "Say it. Please."

            She paced to the center of the office and spoke to the carpet.

            "I want to measure how much I do not know / and this is how I arrive / casually, I knock, they open, I enter and see / yesterday's portraits on the walls / the dining-room of the woman and the man / the chairs, the beds, the salt-cellars / only then do I understand / that there they do not know me." 

            The Patrician stroked his beard as he listened, a faint smile on his face. Sections of his compartmentalized mind left locked and dark over the years stirred like hibernating animals awakening again. Remembering despite the erasure he'd made. It obviously hadn't stuck. He wasn't surprised.

            "I trust you feel better now," he said.

            Isabella dropped the handkerchief onto the conference table. She was suddenly so tired she thought she'd collapse in the Oblong Office. A warm bed, hot tea, sleep. If only she could sleep…

            "Could we try this again tomorrow?" she asked.

            Lord Vetinari escorted her out of the Palace. After watching the carriage rumble off, he quietly ordered a clerk to arrange round-the-clock surveillance. If Isabella Capelli was going to bring him trouble – and he had no doubt she would – at least he might see it coming.

            As he walked slowly back to his office, he remembered... 

            …an oiled brown satchel over her shoulder, the flap lifted, a small tuft of white fur peeking out, followed by two wide, bright little eyes and a small black nose.

            "I don't understand why someone would pitch a pure bred Morporkian terrier into the canal," she said_. _"The little thing was practically smothered."

            She lifted him with one hand out of the satchel.

            "Say hello to Lord Vetinari. Hm? Not talkative anymore? He wouldn't shut up in the carriage. Wuff, wuff, wuff all the way here."

            "He smells like a privy rug, Miss Capelli. Does he have a name?"

            "I'm afraid to do it since I can't keep him. My mother hates strays. Could I leave him with one of your servants until I find a home for him?"

            The memory dissolved.

            In his pocket he fingered Isabella's gold wedding band. It was a cheap trick, the little slide of hand he'd done; he was surprised she hadn't noticed. The ease with which the ring had come off her finger interested him. It could mean…various things. He paused at a wall candle and held the ring up to the light. Gold alloy a half inch wide, random scratches on the surface. The inscription on the inside was in a tiny, extremely fine cursive script.

            Havelock – Isabella – Usque ad mortem_*_

* One of the Patrician's favorite phrases in more general circumstances. It means: Until death. It doesn't mention whose.


	5. Curses, Club Sandwiches and Cori Celesti

5. Curses, Club Sandwiches and Cori Celesti

            It was early morning and Sam Vimes was doing two things he didn't especially like. He was sitting at his desk at Pseudopolis Yard, and he was thinking. Hard. It was far too early for either.

            The first problem, in his opinion, was allowing vampires to enter the city at will. The Patrician had the philosophy that all potentially productive future citizens should be welcome regardless of race, colour, creed, species, religion and orientation toward blood. It had been a good move with the dwarves, for instance, who hammered away in their workshops, making money for Ankh-Morpork. The trolls had also been useful, doing much of the heavy lifting that had been reserved for only the burliest of citizens. 

            Vampires, though. As Vimes stared at his notebook on his desk, he couldn't think of one good reason to allow vampires in the city. Sure, there were individuals who contributed to society, but the group as a whole was too secretive for his tastes. No one really knew how many there were in the city. And the Black Ribboners, well, that wasn't very reassuring. The days of Vimes reaching for the bottle were behind him, but he knew as well as a vampire that cravings never left. Maybe seven out of ten ex-alcoholics started drinking again at some point. There was no reason for Vimes to believe the statistic would be any different for vampires trying to abstain from blood.

            Get ten of them in a room and seven of them were an extinguished candle away from lunging for your neck.

            Vimes rubbed his neck automatically and focused again on his notebook. Last night around midnight, Fred and Nobby found Georgie Potter, age 40, a potter. Tell-tale puncture marks in the area of the jugular vein. No sign of struggle. No sounds, apparently, since the wife…the widow…was in the workshop checking the kiln while the children were sleeping next door. The window in the bedroom was open. The body had been peacefully laid out on the bed before Mrs. Potter found it. Vimes had arrived at the scene a half hour after Nobby left, jarred out of a deep sleep by the pounding of Captain Carrot's fist on the back door of the Ramkin house. There wasn't a drop of blood anywhere in the room. No clues at all.

            Mrs. Potter said the family never had contact with vampires.

            And so, the investigation reached a dead end before it began. It looked to Vimes like a random murder, though such things were rare in the city and he hated them with a passion. The taking of a life should always have a damn good reason, and even then…

            He reached for a new cigar and stuck it between his teeth, though he didn't light it.

            The problem now was the population. Morporkians had their fur up and there were already reports of – Vimes looked at a sheet of paper on his desk – four vampires and two people who looked like vampires getting thumped by mobs in various parts of the city. No casualties yet, but the Watch wasn't getting any more popular by breaking up the mobs and defending the vampires. Someone claiming to be from the Committee for the Expulsion of Vampires had sent him a threatening letter copied to the Patrician.

            Vimes had watchmen canvassing the streets in the neighborhood where the bodies were found, talking to the neighbors and of course, there were a hundred eye witness accounts of what happened, all of them contradictory. There was nothing solid to go on but the Watch had to do something.

            Vimes refused to admit to himself what he really needed. Two things, really.

            A vampire who'd help the Watch to access the underground world of his kind. 

And worse: Another murder. A sloppier one.

**

            Isabella made three visits that day, all of them to people in the teeming city of Ankh-Morpork that few others would go to voluntarily.

            First: Hughnon Ridcully, Chief Priest at the Temple of Blind Io.

            It wasn't that Hughnon, brother of Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of Unseen University, was an unpleasant person to talk to. It wasn't that he was intimidating, though he was the unofficial spokesman for all of the religions in the city. The problem was that lately, he'd begun wearing a very strange talisman round his neck, one that he insisted had been ordered by Io himself. It encouraged people to make eye contact with Hughnon while speaking to him.

            Isabella had a rather delicate stomach and tried not to stare at the talisman while she drank her Triple Whipped Holy Mocha Fizz, a specialty at Io's Best, a café that sat in the shadow of the temple's great statue of Io. The Chief Priest hadn't wanted to speak to her at the temple. Not alone. People might talk.

            She had explained her situation in veiled words, using quite a bit of the "I have a friend who…" and Hughnon had nodded, his talisman bobbing like a great brown and white billiard ball at his chest.

            "…and so I wondered if any of the gods could have anything to do with it, your reverence," she said.

            "Sounds like a good, old-fashioned smiting to me," said Hughnon with a delighted smile on his face.

            "A smiting? But…my friend hasn't done anything wrong." Isabella thought a moment. "That she knows of."

            Hughnon brushed the froth from his drink from his upper lip. "The Great Io once smote a wayward son by inflicting amnesia on him. He wandered in the desert for forty days and fifty nights."

            The talisman ogled Isabella.

            "And…what did he do the other ten days?"

            "He didn't wander on those. He knew right where he was going. Io isn't completely heartless. He put up a few road signs. Threw in a helpful scorpion, that sort of thing."

            "Amnesia," said Isabella. "That means you forget things. Not that you remember things that never happened."

            "True." Hughnon drank, his great shaggy brows bowed with concentration. "Some of the gods are tricky. You can't trust Loki behind you with a fork, I can tell you. Maybe one of them raised your friend from the dead and inserted false memories."

            "Why would anyone do that?"

            Hughnon shrugged. "It's all a game. You know they sit up on Cori Celesti playing games with mortals all the time. The Great Io has been having a good streak lately. He's up fifty dollars as of yesterday." He smiled proudly. The talisman sloshed around in its fluid-filled, glass orb.

            Hughnon leaned forward a little. "Your friend hasn't been feeling a little…er…pregnant lately, has she?"

            "Your reverence!" 

            "Well, that's out then. A god could fall in love with her, raise her from the dead, come to her in a shower of rain and so on."

            "I don't think so," said Isabella darkly.

            "Well, that's all I can think of for now, young lady." He emptied his cup. "I must run. Services in ten minutes. The choir boys steal the candlesticks when they think I'm not looking."

            And he left Isabella with her drink and the sensation of being stared at by the massive cow's eye that bounced round his neck in its glass casing.

            Second visit: The Ephebian philosopher Vitalites, who happened to be having lunch with the wizard Orangeleaf. This was two birds with one stone for Isabella. The reason they were not pleasant to visit became obvious as soon as the red onions and goat cheese arrived.

            "It's possible your friend doesn't exist, " said Vitalites, chewing a black olive meditatively after listening to what Isabella had to say.

            "Wouldn't she exist if she's here?" she asked.

            "Both of your are way off," said Orangeleaf as he smeared a piece of bread with cream cheese. "She's in a state of existence and non-existence at the same time."

            "Nonsense," said Vitalites. "What was your friend's name again?"

            "Nancy."

            "Yes, there is obviously a world in which the best of all possible Nancies exists. And that world, of course must be the one in which the only Nancy known to exist is, in fact, existing. If Nancy exists in a world that doesn't believe her to exist, then she very probably doesn't exist at all because, as we know, the best of all possible Nancies would have to be one that not only exists, but which others believe to exist."

            Vitalites took a satisfied bite of his marinated eggplant.

            "Does it count that _she_ believes she exists?"

            "Completely irrelevant," said Vitalites, his mouth full.

            "Don't listen to the old fool," said the wizard, who looked as close a centenarian as Vitalites. "Obviously, something happened fifteen years ago that was a great turning point in Nancy's life. And this thing, a decision of some kind, spawned a nearly infinite number of other Nancies who all live their own lives and, presumably die, on parallel tracks, one person, but separate, existing in many places in spacetime, but not in others, depending on what occurs in them."

            "Nonsense," said Vitalites to his yellow bell pepper.

            "How could this happen?" asked Isabella.

            "The universe, my dear, is like a club sandwich," said Orangeleaf. He set a plate in front of Isabella that contained a sandwich stacked so high she'd have to slice it in three places horizontally to get a piece that would fit in her mouth. "I should say, universes. There are more of them than we can count. Imagine the lettuce here is the first dimension, the tomato second, ham third – that's usually referred to as our dimension, and the bacon is the fourth, which is usually characterised as time. Many people think these are four separate dimensions, but really, they're all a single sandwich, that's spacetime, that happens to contain four dimensions."

            "Is the toothpick there supposed to be anything?" asked Isabella.

            "It's to hold spacetime together, my dear. Now, when something happens in one place and seemingly in one moment of time, other universes are born in which other possibilities became the reality. We end up with billions of club sandwiches as a result of one decision made in one moment in space."

            "A billion club sandwiches," muttered Vitalites. He rolled his eyes.

            "Is it possible for someone to move from one of these…club sandwiches to another?" asked Isabella.

            "Oh, I shouldn't think so," said Orangeleaf.

            "Ha!" Vitalites raised a triumphant index finger. "You claim infinite universes of possibility but deny the possibility of movement between them. That, my friend, is a paradox."

            Orangeleaf wrinkled his brow. "No, it's not. I'm merely acknowledging the need for a vehicle to transport someone from one existence to another. It's only logical. Let's take this zucchini…"

            Isabella left them in Vitalites' little garden, convinced that she wasn't going to get anywhere listening to the universe (or universes) explained through the metaphor of whatever the wizard and philosopher happened to be having for lunch. 

            Third visit: Agatha the witch at her Botanical Shop on Glimmer Street.

            Isabella stepped into the cluttered little shop full of jars stuffed with dried plants and animal parts and immediately sneezed.

            "Get those devils out of ye, girl, eh? Hehe." It was a bit of presumption for Agatha to call Isabella girl. Agatha looked about twenty.

            "You're the owner?" said Isabella doubtfully. For a witch, Agatha had a healthy mouthful of teeth. And a pink jumper that was definitely not standard witch issue.

            "That I am," said Agatha. "You're looking for a love philtre, eh? The old charms ain't workin' how they used to, hm? Hehe." She made little jabbing motions at Isabella with her elbow.

            "My charms are just fine, thank you," said Isabella. "Try again."

            Agatha came out from behind the counter and stroked her chin as she eyed Isabella from head to foot.

            "That your original hair colour?"

            "Yes."

            "Not looking for any henna?"

            "No."

            "Not hit your time of life yet, eh?"

            "How old do you think I am?" Isabella glared.

            "May I see your hand, milady?"

            Agatha examined Isabella's left palm, muttering unidentifiable words under her breath. 

            "Hm," she said. "You haven't been cursed lately, have you?"

            Isabella looked startled. "Does it look like I've been cursed?"

            Agatha took her right palm and compared it to the left. 

            "Hm," she said again. 

            "What?"

            "Looks like maybe a truth potion'll help."

            Despite the unsettling mention of a curse, Isabella was impressed. A truth potion was what she'd come into the shop to buy. Agatha trotted behind the counter, bent to rummage in a cabinet and pulled out a small blue corked pot. After finding a glass vial, she poured some of the contents of the pot inside, corked and waxed it and held it out to Isabella.

            "You're in luck; it's two for one today. Two applications, ten dollars."

            Isabella had felt bad about borrowing from Sybil. She would've helped with the dragons to even things out if there wasn't a danger of the dragons turning her into charcoal. She laid the coins on the counter.

            "How long will the effects last?" she asked.

            "It's fast stuff. About ten minutes after drinking it, the truth will start flowing. For good or for ill. It lasts a good hour depending on your weight, if you had a heavy meal beforehand, that kind of thing." Agatha grinned. "There may be a bit of a headache afterward, so I don't recommend driving a carriage or operating heavy machinery, eh? Hehe."

**

            Cannibals and vampires have one thing in common. They believe that the consumption of a human, in one case flesh and the other blood, transfers the life force from  victim to the consumer. In both cases it's a belief and not inherently true in the physiology of either cannibals or vampires, and it's nothing that could be tested in a laboratory. But most people are aware of the power of belief, its ability to make true what the believer wishes. 

            The vampires who still consumed human blood were some of the strongest believers on the Disc. They were certain that the vampires who joined the Black Ribbon Movement and shunned human blood had lost their faith. Broken the blood covenant. On another world in another dimension, millions of victims discovered the consequences when a belief splintered, its believers ranged against each other, accusations of loss of faith supported at the edge of a sword.

            In Uberwald it was happening too. On one side the Reds, the traditionalists, the blood drinkers. On the other, the Blacks, the reformers, the teetotalers training themselves to sip warm tomato soup or stay content with steak tartar.

            Klieg knew what side she was on. 

            Of course, a change of sides only took a little convincing, a little faith and a lot of self control. 

            Or, looked at from another perspective, a single drop of human blood.

            The buttresses outside of an outcropping on the turnwise side of the Palace served as a comfortable base from which Klieg wandered over stone gargoyles and peeked in windows. She did love to peek. The Winter Palace had three whole pages in the "Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork." Through windows or glass domes she'd already peeked into the Throne Room, the Rats Chamber and the ballroom where apparently the Patrician hadn't had any balls in years.

            She was currently peeking into a large office with a snow white carpet on the floor, a large desk, and a tall, slim man in black sitting behind it, his profile to her. He was talking to a deferential young man, probably a clerk. Klieg eased her way along the narrowest of stone sills, confident that she couldn't be seen in the evening light. She didn't wish to and so she wasn't. She watched as the man at the desk shook his head and said something else to the clerk. 

            Klieg leaned toward the glass. 

            "Vetinaaaaariiiii," she sang softly. 

            He got up from his desk and Klieg eased out of sight, then climbed up the stone wall, moving to other windows, peeking for the fun of it.


	6. Truth Potion

6. Truth Potion

            On the way back to the Ramkin-Vimes House from Agatha's shop, Isabella made a sudden about face and marched up to a man in a brown leather vest and shabby breaches. Workingman's attire, like thousands of men in the city wore. He slipped behind a mule but Isabella called out to him.

            "Sir! Could you please let his lordship know I'll be visiting at nine? Thanks so much."

            The agent considered not delivering the message to the Patrician, but guessed he'd be in deeper trouble if Isabella showed up without warning than if he just admitted he'd been tagged.

            When nine came around, Isabella sent a Palace servant to inform the Patrician that they would be meeting in a room one floor above, a sitting room far more comfortable than his office. She prepared it alone, setting out the candles and opening the window a crack to air things out. The cloth bag she'd brought with her was set in a corner, next to the sideboard.

            The Patrician appeared at a quarter after with a large roll of paper under his arm. Without a word, Isabella held out her hand. He placed her wedding ring in her palm. She set it on the sideboard.

            "A nasty trick."

            "I do apologize."

            A servant brought in a tea tray and they drank for a few minutes without speaking, watching each other. The mutual examination was becoming something of a ritual.

            "You made some interesting visits today," said the Patrician, setting his cup aside. "I have always had a naïve attitude toward club sandwiches. As a young man, I was rather fond of eating what I realize now is a metaphor for spacetime. Remarkable."

            "Ridcully is wearing a terrible cow's eyeball around his neck."

            "It has the benefit of making him a social pariah." 

            Lord Vetinari watched Isabella set the sealed vial on the table between them.

            "I have always found it doubtful that a mixture of certain herbs, mystery ingredients and magic spells could compel someone to tell such an elusive thing as the truth," he said. "It seems to imply that the world is made up of unbendable truths that can be tapped in some universal way, when in reality the truth is one of the most flexible substances known to man. And dangerous, of course. In my experience, 'tell the truth' is usually an invitation to present one's own narrow perspective of a given situation, and once that's out, everyone usually regrets it."  

            "As a wise man said: If you want to tell the truth, have one foot in the stirrup," said Isabella.

            The Patrician smiled. "Indeed, though it sounds better in the original Tsortian." He peeled the wax off the vial and handed it to her. "You appear to be in the saddle, Miss Capelli."

            She plugged her nose and took a swig. Immediately she fell into a fit of coughing and sputtering into her sleeve. Lord Vetinari had to take the vial away before she spilled the rest of the oily liquid all over her skirt.

            "Gods," she said. "_Awful_."

            "I've heard it tastes of a cross between rabbit fur and brussel sprouts."

            Isabella wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "If I'd known the truth would taste so terrible, I wouldn't have drunk it."

            Lord Vetinari smiled. 

            And drank the rest of it.

            "You didn't have to do that, Havelock." 

            He allowed a brief grimace to pass over his face. "Yes. Brussel sprouts," he said in a tone that implied more of the rabbit fur taste would have been welcome. He coughed into his fist. "We shall see how effective Mistress Agatha's truth potion is. Ten minutes until the effect, I think?"

            Taking the potion served a purpose, of course. It wouldn't do for Isabella to have exchanged the potion for water and resealed the vial. He didn't think her the type to do that, but then, he was currently investigating what type of person she really was. Now. Not then. He was being careful to separate the two.

            "Let's get some fresh air before this hits us," she said. 

            She led him to the wall next to the sideboard and pressed a nondescript part of the white striped wall paper. A panel slid back. Beyond was a dark, dusty passage, lit here and there by small slits in the stone walls through which moonlight shown. Isabella led the way, straight fifty feet, a right, two hundred feet, another right, a hundred feet to a stairway, sixty winding steps up. Finally, she stopped at a stone wall, pressed a space in the blackness and a door swung open.

            Wind blew in, whistling through the hinges in the door and spinning down the corridor behind them. It picked up Isabella's skirt and the Patrician's robe as they stepped out onto a large stone shelf. The roofs of the Palace were below them. The Rimward Tower was, with its widdershins twin, the tallest part of the Winter Palace. Crenallations rose like squared teeth around most of the tower except for a space facing Lower Broadway that was clear, a sheer edge used centuries ago as the setting for some anti-siege machine. There was nothing there now. The entrance to the secret passage lay in a cylindrical stone structure in the very center of the tower. It looked like a top hat.

            Over the edge of the tower they could see in reduced size the Assassins Guild next to the Fools, and the Day Watch House across from the Guild of Thieves. Beyond was the Brass Bridge over a 90-degree bend in the Ankh.

            "My favorite view," said Isabella. She pointed at the bridge. "One day I'd like to build a tunnel under the Ankh right there. We could direct commercial traffic underneath Broadway and free up congestion on the surface." She sighed. "Leonard still hasn't come up with a water-tight tunnel shield, though he's left his attic twice to test prototypes. The tunnels under Widdershins Park work like a dream but digging under the river is…" She glanced at Lord Vetinari. "You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?"

            "Perhaps we should sit before the Truth knocks us off our feet."

            They sat on the edge of the tower shelf, their legs dangling over the side. Ankh-Morpork spread out below them, a cluster of light, brighter in some neighbourhoods where people could afford to burn candles rather than use them to fry up the evening meal. The Patrician knew the tower well and appreciated the view. He'd discovered it as a young Assassin casing out the Palace when it was in the hands of  the patricians Homicidal Lord Winder and Mad Lord Snapcase. He'd even allowed himself a bit of graffiti once with the green face paint he'd used as camouflage. _Carpe noctem_ could not be seen on the tower wall even right after he wrote it. It was camouflage paint, after all. 

            The foolish things one does when one is young, the Patrician thought wistfully.

            "May I begin?" he asked.

            "If you promise to answer my questions too."

            He nodded.

            "Where have you lived the past fifteen years?" he asked.

            Isabella patted the masonry beside her. "Right here. At the Palace. I've been telling the truth about that. Where did you think I was?"

            "I was at the funeral. I had no reason to believe you were not in the coffin."

            They talked for a long while, dealing first with the questions from the night before, all answered calmly, without guile. Isabella denied knowledge of a carriage accident or of leaving the city to live elsewhere. She stuck by the Lady Vetinari story, describing the fundraiser at Lady Sybil's and its guests, who were mostly nobles and wealthy merchants. There were no wizards or other representatives of the magic community in attendance. Lord Vetinari was there, she said, but was talking to Lord Selachii when she went outside for some fresh air. The weather had been completely normal as far as summer nights in Ankh-Morpork went, though she blamed the humidity for the terrible headache she'd had that grew steadily worse as the evening wore on. She remembered pausing among the rhododendrons in Sybil's garden and a feeling of vertigo and then waking up in a bed in the Ramkin House with Sybil looking after her.   

            Lord Vetinari studied her face but could find no sign that she was avoiding the, for lack of a better word, truth. 

            "What do you think happened?" he asked.

            "I can think of about a half dozen possibilities that fit the facts so far," she said. "It's an interesting spectrum. On one end is some kind of quantum event. On the other is my husband staging a cruel plot to drive me completely insane." She rubbed her eyes. "You're capable of such amazing things."

            It was clear by the way she said it that this was not a compliment.        

            "If there is a plot, it hasn't originated from me," he said. 

            "Who else would be capable of such a thing?"

            "Lady Margolotta was under consideration but that's looking increasingly unlikely. She doesn't have the power to…" The Patrician stopped. He hadn't intended to bring her up. 

            "Why did you suspect her?" 

            He listened to himself talk freely about the note he received on the day he was informed that Isabella was in the city. It was ridiculous. Truth potion only worked when the person who took it believed it would. He didn't. Yet he was talking despite his best efforts to keep his mouth shut. It was a new experience for him.

            "She's not the type to send you a woman as a gift," Isabella was saying.

            "You've met?" 

            "At the wedding. The week before, rather. She was very condescending at first." 

            Isabella crossed her legs, tilted her head up and gestured as if she was smoking from a cigarette holder. 

            "I never guessed that Havelock vould vun day marry such a lovely _child_," she said in a cool Uberwaldean vampire accent. "Ve vill be good friends, you and I. Ve shall write often and I shall tell you vhat to do to make your new husband happy. I have _experience_." 

            Isabella dropped her Margolotta act.   

            "At least you had the decency to tell me something about your old visit to Uberwald. I was anxious to get a look at her after all of that. She was everything I expected." She laughed suddenly, but dampened it by patting her mouth in a mock show of politeness. "She and my mother got along famously. We did too, actually, after she stopped calling me 'my child' all the time. She's really a fascinating woman."

            The Patrician looked thoughtful.

            "What is the one thing that all rulers, at some point, want?"

            "An heir."

            "Hm. While _in general_ I can see the attraction of having you here for that purpose, I don't see the benefit for Lady Margolotta."

            "Her riddles are always more subtle."

            "Indeed." The Patrician replayed his last sentence or two over in his mind, then dismissed them quickly.

            A cool wind skirted the edge of the tower and passed over them. It gave the air a refreshing nip, as if the wind had come from further up the plains where it was raining.

            "Tell me," said Isabella, "how do you know me if you aren't my husband?"

            "A rather complicated issue." The Patrician sighed. "I was able to help you in certain matters and in return you--" He cut himself off. He could feel the potion chipping at his self control. Wrestling with his own mind wasn't pleasant but he did it often and had more experience (and success) at it than most people. He forced himself to shift gears.

            "How well do you know the layout of the city?" he asked.

            "Don't change the subject."

            "I'm not. You   did some work for me before the accident. Some sketches. Surveys and so forth. You had just begun a new city map when whatever happened…happened."

            Isabella looked relieved.

            "At least that's the same. I did do a map for you back then but it took me a year." She studied the Patrician's face. "We met at a Merchants Guild reception, didn't we?"

            He nodded.

            "And then?"

            "We met again. You were quite anxious to show me drawings you'd made of various bridges."

            "I thought the carriage accident was soon after the reception."

            "Five months, one week and two days." 

            He was looking out over the city again. A memory came back to him, a single sharp image that blotted out the panorama. He remembered the dark green marble fireplace in his study at his house – not the Palace, his family manor in Ankh – and huddling very close to the flames, a blanket around his shoulders, a book open on his lap. The quill suspended, dripping ink on the page, then the scratch of the nib like a saw on his nerves.

            _Merchants Guild sent word of Capelli accident this afternoon..._

            Isabella was looking at him. 

            "You're not telling me everything."

            The Patrician got smoothly to his feet and offered her a hand.

            "You're quite right. If you will accompany me downstairs, I would like to make a small request, if I may."

            Out of curiosity, Isabella followed without argument. On a table behind the sitting room sofa, the drafting paper had been spread out, its edges held down by small pyramidal paperweights.

            "Would you oblige me by drawing a rough version of the city map?" asked the Patrician.

            Isabella picked up a quill.         

            "What scale?"

            He looked at her blankly. It wasn't that she appeared to imply she could draw a map at scale without rulers and proper drafting tools, it was…

            He shook off the thought. 

            "One to 13,000, please."

            Isabella sketched quickly, beginning with the general round shape of the city within the old walls, cut by the snaking twists of the Ankh River. Blocks of neighborhoods were shaded in next according to the dissections certain main streets made of the Ankh-Morpork pie. But there were major differences from what the Patrician knew. Wide boulevards where there were supposed to be simple streets, an extra bridge at the extreme rimward edge of the old city walls, peculiar concentrations of buildings, a massive open space that Isabella identified as Widdershins Park, where carriages, banned on the surface, travelled in tunnels under the terraces, groves and pavilions. 

            "We re-routed or re-built quite a few roads after the rain water reservoirs were constructed, one off Treacle Street and  and the other between Quarry and Elm," she said. 

            She sketched in two large six-sided figures. 

            "We built them on hills made out of earth brought up from construction of the new winter harbour widdershins of the old piers." On the edge of the paper, she drew a series of squares and curves.

            "Parts of the Shades in a line roughly following Elm Street hubward to the bend in the Ankh near Pon's Bridge were torn down and rebuilt as a municipal garden with canals," she said. "We did that in several places, actually. A political nightmare at first. People accused us of destroying their homes and businesses. We started a redevelopment site widdershins of Cunning Artificers," she pointed, "and are subsidizing the rents until things settle down." 

            "Gardens in the Shades," said Lord Vetinari. "What an interesting idea."

            "We didn't do it because we like gardens. We did it because of the fire ordinance."

            The Patrician gave her an "obviously" sort of look.

            "If there's a fire in one section of Morpork, there's relatively quick access to a canal or a straight road to one of the reservoirs," said Isabella. "Even if things burn a bit, the fire can't spread so quickly to the other sections because of the gardens. We haven't had to put out a fire by opening the flood gates on the Ankh in seven or eight years."

            She turned her attention to the center of the map, and pointed to just rimwards of Pseudopolis Yard and the Opera House. 

            "We built the public library here. Sybil donated the first thousand volumes but now the city has fifty thousand in twelve languages. We plan an expansion next year, and there's no way to build but up." Her eyes sparkled as she began to sketch a building on the edge of the paper. "The hospital on Treacle Mine Road is already six stories but I can make the library eleven -- _eleven_ stories, Havelock -- if instead of using the stone walls as supports, we take steel beams and lay…"  

            The Patrician didn't need the drawings as she talked. Even under the influence of a truth potion that was bringing on a rotten head ache, he could see the city in his mind. The changes Isabella talked about he sketched in on his mental map and they fit and were sensible, with the possible exception of the library (which encouraged widespread literacy and multiple printing presses) and the hospital (which implied a leap forward in the practice of medicine from what he knew). Otherwise, the city laid out before him in two dimensions was…_brilliant._

Isabella set the quill aside and flexed her fingers.

            "You didn't marry me for my charms, Havelock; you wanted an architect and planner, someone to improve things physically while you worked on the politics and finances. Until the children came along, all I did was city work."

            The Patrician was still gazing down at the map. He didn't bother to comment that the existence of children implied that there was time during the massive overhaul of the municipal landscape for at least two moments of rest.

            Isabella went back to her chair and pressed her fingers to her eyes, then down her cheeks. "Do you believe me now?"

            "I believe this to be a remarkable situation," he said, "whatever the truth of it."

            She looked away from him. On the sideboard was a small gleam of gold. Her wedding ring. She thought about going to get it but she didn't move from her chair. 

            "I could use your help," she said. "I wouldn't ask unless it was serious."

            The Patrician looked at Isabella looking at her wedding ring and narrowed the reasons she hadn't put it back on to two. Three, actually. It was a prop, meaning nothing to her. Or it was no longer needed. Or it was no longer wanted. All of them interesting possibilities. 

            "We'll consult the wizards tomorrow," he said. "If we avoid lunchtime, perhaps we'll get useful help from them."

            "In return for helping me, I'll help you." 

            Lord Vetinari held up a hand. "I ask for nothing. For now."

            "If you intend to work on the issue of vampires tonight, maybe I can give you some information. I know Festus' Uberwald dispatches well; they're an interesting balance with Margolotta's letters. Especially on the latest developments with the Reds and Blacks. Maybe we can compare notes." 

            The Patrician blinked. He did have an agent named Festus in Uberwald. His best agent there. Possibly his best anywhere on the Disc. It was a coup to have a vampire working for him at all; vampires tended to get touchy about espionage for foreign powers. That was why Festus was one of the Patrician's best kept secrets.

            He added it to the tally of things Isabella Capelli shouldn't know. The floor plan of the Palace. The secret passageways. The contents of his desk. Leonard of Quirm in the attic. She had perfect recall of the city map, her version of it anyway. She obviously knew something about his past with Lady Margolotta, and with her comment about Blacks and Reds, she hinted at  recent political developments in the vampire community that he knew only from his agents. 

            He got to his feet and fetched the bag Isabella had brought.

            "You are a lady of forethought to come with an overnight bag," he said.

            "I'd like a guest room, don't worry." 

            The Patrician opened the door. "Then we will drop this off and retire to my office. I believe a tea out of the herb Longenkraut with a bit of honey will do wonders to clear the head."     

            When the door closed, Klieg slipped over the windowsill and around the curtains and stood surveying the room. So many windows. So many places through which to peek. And listen. The talk about the city map had bored her but the mention of Festus interested her immensely. She knew Festus. Everybody knew him. A spy… Klieg poured herself a scotch at the drinks cabinet. Lady Margolotta was going to be delighted to hear the news.

            She was about to take a sip of her drink when she froze. There was no movement, no sound. Slowly, her eyes swivelled to the chair where Isabella had been sitting. The scotch glass was set aside and Klieg started sniffing the air, her body bent double until her nose touched the back of the chair, then slid down until it hovered above the seat cushion. She straightened then, a frown on her face. Her nose alerted her to something else, and she began sniffing again, this time leading to the tea cup Isabella had drank from. Klieg licked the edge carefully, then let her nose carry her across the room to the sideboard. And the ring. She looked at it, slipped it into her mouth, bit the gold gently, then removed it and set it with reverence on the sideboard again. 

            The smell and the taste… 

            The woman's scent was irresistible, like nothing Klieg had ever smelled before. The scent of an average victim, say, a Vetinari, revealed in its pungency and song the life that could be tasted, one short life but fully lived. A vampire could smell on one of her own kind the scent of a single long, life that stretched indefinitely and thinned as it went. Isabella, though, was different. A thousand lives _shimmered_. That was the smell of her. As if tasting her would deliver in an instant the same gratification as a thousand victims consumed at once in an impossible orgy. In another world, a comparison could have been drawn between a tobacco cigarette – the stimulating effect of the average victim on a vampire – and a syringe full of heroin. 

            Klieg already felt the prick of the needle at her vein. 

            Deep in the night, when even Ankh-Morpork was at its quietest, she sat perched outside the window of the guest room Isabella had selected. The curtains were drawn and the window closed, but Klieg imagined that the scent of her came through the glass. During the vigil, she shivered from the expectation of tasting what lay inside the room. Of course she wouldn't take the woman tonight; the expectation was too delicious. 

Dawn approached. Klieg wasn't tired and would have rather stayed, but daylight was not her friend. The window glass was cool beneath her lips when she whispered "Isabeeeeeelllaaaaa" against it before dropping into the night. She needed a bit of a night cap before bed.


	7. Protection at RockBottom Prices

**Thanks for the reviews! The plot has to thicken a bit more before I give you too many answers, so be patient! Enjoy the ride and stay tuned for drunkenness, fighting, cross-dressing (almost) and shocking revelations. ** 

7. Protection at Rock-Bottom Prices

            First thing in the morning, Lord Sack-Woddel was found slumped in the armchair in his library, a book in his lap. The title was "Vampires: A History." The maid who found him screamed at the sight of his blue lips and protruding eyes, and his head lolling into the wing of the chair. She didn't see beneath his dressing gown that his veins had collapsed.

            The Watch was called in immediately, and it was Vimes who noticed the slip of paper between two pages of the book. With a handkerchief, he pulled it out.

            _The poor, the working class, the nobles. Three classes, three  meals. Who shall it be next?_

            The note was unsigned, of course, just his luck, thought Vimes. Normally, psychopaths liked to give themselves a name in these situations. Something to go by. But unsigned or no, it was a clue, and though Vimes didn't hold much with those, it was more than he had before.

            "What do you want us to do with him, sir?" asked Captain Carrot quietly. Lord Sack-Woddel had been a lifelong bachelor, a harmless old thing alone in his big house with the servants. Vimes was uncomfortable that this had happened on the turnwise side of the Ankh, in a house so close to his. Scoone Avenue was just around the corner and he had a pregnant wife… With a shock, he realized how he was thinking. 

            "Somebody has to care what happens to him," he said. "Find the next of kin, wherever they are. In the meantime…" Vimes turned away from the body. There was no formal morgue in Ankh-Morpork. Murders weren't normal. "Put him in the ice house. Keep a guard on twenty four hours."

            The nobles were going to go spare. Vampires taking a nibble out of a potter was one thing, but a lord…_that_ hit too close to home. Vimes estimated fifteen minutes before the entire committee of Lords Selachii, Venturii, Rust et al would show up at Pseudopolis Yard, purple-faced with rage, demanding to know what he was doing about this.

            What was he doing? He looked around at the watchmen quietly opening desk drawers, looking at the bookcase, rifling through papers. He'd told them to do it because it had to be done, even if he thought nothing would be found. What could he do?

            "Anything, Littlebottom?"

            The dwarf Cheery Littlebottom, currently the only member of the Watch's crack forensics team, straightened from the armchair that held Lord Sack-Woddel and held up a pair of tweezers. From the tip dangled a very long, very silky strand of blue black hair.

            "I'd bet anything it's a woman's hair, sir," she said.

            Vimes rubbed his chin. "Check it with the household staff." 

             Sergeant Angua appeared at his elbow. "May I?" Cheery held the hair higher and Angua leaned toward it, her eyes closed, sniffing.

            "That's her," she said.

            "_Her_?" 

            "It's faint but unmistakable, sir. Vampires have a certain kind of scent."

            "We're looking for a…" he lowered his voice, "…female vampire?"

            "Looks like it, sir."

            "Can you follow the scent?"

            Angua shook her head. "It's summer, sir. The moment it gets outside, the smell of the Ankh will overpower it."

            "What should I do with this, sir?" asked Cheery.

            "Check it with the staff anyway." Vimes rubbed his eyes. There was definitely a lack of sleep in his life. Two nights, two sets of murders. One in the handworker's district, one in Ankh. There was…

            He slapped his forehead. The loud crack of it made every watchman in the room turn. He pulled the note he'd found out of his pocket and looked at it again. Three classes, three meals. The workers and the nobles he knew about. The poor. The poor…

            "Carrot!" he shouted as he ran out into the hall.

            The captain rushed back in from his examination of Lord Sack-Woddel's ice house. 

            "Sir?"

            "Take some people up to the Shades. Knock on every door, and I mean every damn door until you find out who's been killed by a vampire in the last week or so. All right?"

            "Wouldn't they have reported--?"

            "It's the Shades, Carrot! Do they ever report anything? Just do it." Vimes excitedly searched his pockets for a new cigar. "Sergeant!" 

            Angua appeared just as he was lighting up in the hallway. 

            "Sir?"

            He took her aside and spoke quietly. "Do you have any vampire friends?"

            "Not really, sir."

            Vimes face fell. "None? Not even at that bar you go to?"

            "Well, I wouldn't call them friends, sir. Acquaintances."

            "On friendly terms with any?"

            Angua shrugged. Friendly terms had many meanings, and at the moment, she was supposed to be on friendly terms with Carrot. 

            "We need a friendly vampire, Angua. Somebody who can advise us. Do you have any idea how little we know about the vampire population in the city?"

            "I can imagine."

            "Can you find someone?"

            "They're not very nice about informants, sir."

            "Not informant. Advisor."

            "I'll see what I can do."

            Vimes directed the removal of the body and rushed off to the Palace to tell Vetinari the news. If he didn't already know it. 

***

            The carriage lurched again and came to another full stop. Shouts could be heard outside, curses, the braying of donkeys, riders whipping horses. Noon in Ankh-Morpork was normally a trying time for anyone using the roadways, but on that brilliantly sunny day it was chaos. Gridlock traffic on Turnwise Broadway and nobody knew why. Some days, there were just too many carts, coaches, horses, mules and people on the streets. By the time the driver of Vetinari's coach noticed the seriousness of the situation, it was too late to take a detour. Five minutes out of the Palace gates and they were stuck.

            The Patrician flipped the shade down and sighed. His daily schedule was minutely planned and never, ever took into account traffic jams. Appointments awaited him in his office. Concerns about the disturbing developments in the city crowded out almost everything else. Vimes was beside himself, raring with energy but at a loss as to what more he could do besides be on the look out for suspicious-looking, possibly female vampires which meant, of course, most of them. The nobles had crashed the Watch meeting and demanded swift and violent action. 

            A Committee for the Expulsion of Vampires had showed up to demand -- surprise surprise -- the expulsion of all vampires from Ankh-Morpork. They left his office just as representatives of one of the Black Ribbon clubs dropped by wearing large hats, sun glasses, mufflers and clothing that covered almost every inch of skin. Teetotalers could stand weak daylight. The Expulsion Committee didn't care who the vampires were; once a bloodsucker, always a bloodsucker. There was a scuffle in the antechamber outside the Oblong Office.  

            Beside him in the carriage sat Isabella, who was of course an entirely different problem. Lord Vetinari wasn't prepared to discount a connection between her and what was happening in the city, but even without one, she was a problem. A big enough one that despite the fifty other things he needed to be doing, he couldn't allow her to go to the wizards without him.

            Deep into the night they'd sat opposite one another at the conference table in the Oblong Office talking of politics in Uberwald. Isabella knew about the power struggles between the feudal elements there and Lady Margolotta's success at consolidating a significant portion of the country under her control. And the more recent developments: A dozen vampires killed since Vimes left Uberwald, victims of the worsening conflict between the Reds and Blacks. The leader of the Blacks was a vampire named Lothar but the power behind the throne, so to speak, was Margolotta. Abstinent four years, apparently. Isabella said Margolotta's letters over those years had explained why she did it, the challenge of self control. It confirmed what Vimes had told the Patrician after his return from the crowning of the Dwarf King.

            Lord Vetinari and Isabella talked of the influence that the mostly Black vampire expatriate community in Ankh-Morpork had on their compatriots back home in Uberwald. They talked of belief and of human – or in this case, vampire – nature. Festus had reported in his dispatches that the ripening conflict in Uberwald involved nothing less than the future of vampirism.

            And Isabella Capelli, dead 15 years, was perfectly aware of it all.  

            To be on the safe side, the Patrician had asked her if she was a vampire herself. She showed her teeth (no fangs) and suggested they go to Unseen University just before noon when the August sun was nearly at its highest. He took that as a no.

            Enterprising merchants started shouting out their wares, taking advantage of potential customers trapped in the roadway. 

            "Stakes! Get yer fresh chopped stakes!"

            Cut-Me-Own-Throat Dibbler gave Isabella an honest merchant's grin through the open coach window.

            "Good day to you, milady. And a fine one it is, eh? The sun is shining like a blessing but I ask you, what protection have ye got when night falls?"

            "Protection from what, Mr. Dibbler?" 

            There was a Dibbler in every town, anywhere where a man trying to make a buck stumbles on a brilliant scheme to make it big. This time, the scheme was hanging in sharp bits from a rope around his neck. 

            Dibbler looked around as if to be sure they were alone, then leaned closer. "Vampires got a taste for tender young ladies," he said conspiratorially. "Well known fact."

            "Is it?"

            "Oh, yeah. Ten ladies got a visit, if you know what I mean, just last night."

            "I hadn't heard that," said Isabella, looking with amusement at Vetinari. He put a hand over his eyes.

            "Now I think about it, it was fifteen," said Dibbler. "A young and, if I may say in the presence of your gentleman there, attractive lady can not afford to be without protection." He held up a sharpened and rather dilapidated wooden stake the length of Isabella's forearm. "Guaranteed to kill ninety five percent of vampires." 

            "By giving them splinters?" she said, eyeing the dry rot.

            "Right through the heart, milady. You got to get'em through the heart."

            "My word."

            "Gruesome, but in these trying times, we must be prepared for anything," said Dibbler sagely. "Each and every stake was blessed by at least one high priest, and my current supply was rubbed up against a copy of the Book of Om. The tips were dipped in water from the fabled Holy Well of Agatea. That's triple protection." Dibbler winked. "This Anti-Vampire Security System has been valued at thirty dollars but it can be yours for just ten."

            "Good gods," said Isabella, a hand over her smile.

            "Buy now and I'll throw in a free gourmet sausage. Garlic-flavoured."

            "Ten dollars is a lot of money."

            "Is your life worth less?" asked Dibbler with a convincing smile.

            "Is yours?" asked Lord Vetinari, leaning over Isabella and glaring through two icy blue eyes.

            Dibbler stared at the Patrician, then cleared his throat. 

            "An honour to see yer lordship, er… Fine day, eh? Yessir, Special Palace Discount, all this for five dollars." He waved the stake. 

            The Patrician's glare didn't budge. Dibbler cleared his throat again. "Two dollars. But that's the last offer. I'm cutting me own throat as it is."

            The Patrician smiled. This upset Dibbler more than when the Patrician didn't smile.

            "All right. One dollar. And I can offer that only cause the wood's from one of the lamp posts up in…" At the fixed expression on the Patrician's face, Dibbler's entrepreneurial spirit deflated. 

            "I've got ten cents," said Isabella, holding up a coin.

            "That'll do, milady. Here's your stake. Have a good day." If Dibbler had been wearing a cap, he would've touched the brim. "Good day to you too, er, yer lordship."

            A bit of wood flaked off the stake. "I don't think you could use this thing as a picket in a fence," said Isabella. 

            The carriage moved a whopping ten feet and came to a rest. The Patrician glanced at his pocket watch and closed it with an irritated snap.

            "You mentioned last night a tunnel under the river for commercial traffic," he said. "Is that really possible?"

            "I got the idea one night in the palace dungeon when I saw the Helmet-headed Shipworm drilling through a wooden plank bed," said Isabella. "Amazing. He had--"

            "One moment. Why were you in the dungeon?"           

            "You always said a ruler shouldn't have a dungeon he wouldn't like to spend a night in himself. We had a bit of a camp-out once." She waved a hand. "But that's not interesting. The Shipworm, _that _was something. His head is shaped like this," Isabella steepled her hands over her hair, "and he uses it to bore through wood. The best part is, he excretes this sticky substance as he goes and it shores up the tunnel behind him. I saw that and thought, why can't it work on a bigger scale?"

            "I hesitate to think of the type and amount of excretion necessary for that."

            "Think of an iron arch as high a you want the tunnel to be. Maybe it's only…ten feet long. Closed at the end with wooden slats. Sink it into the soft soil under the river so that workers inside are in something of an air pocket. They can brick the walls while the shield holds back the soil and water." Isabella sat back and sighed. "Theoretically. I don't know how to make the thing safe for the workers. If the wood is too weak, the tunnel will flood. And I don't want to talk about what kind of foul vapours are probably sitting under the river. The workers would suffocate. Leonard hasn't been much of a help on this either. Two out of his three shield prototypes exploded."

            "And the third?"

            "He sat on it by accident."

            The Patrician registered a complete lack of surprise.

            "Perhaps you could draw a schematic for me nevertheless," he said. 

            There was a moment of déjà vu, a sudden feeling that he'd had this conversation with Isabella before. Yet she'd never mentioned a tunnel when he knew her; her enthusiasm had been largely centered on buildings and bridges. Perhaps she went through phases over the years. Her map had showed new streets, gardens, reservoirs, a harbour. 

            "How in the world would I pay for all of that?" he said absently.

            "Pay for what?"

            "Large municipal building projects. Reservoirs, parks and hospitals are not self-financing."

            Isabella looked surprised. "You don't trade with the Counterweight Continent?"

            "I _beg_ your…?" 

            The Patrician kept contact with the Agatean Empire at a minimum, mostly because of the rich gold deposits there that would devalue the Ankh-Morpork dollar, which didn't have enough gold in it to fill a tooth. Assuming Isabella's version of events was true, she was married to a Patrician who'd figured out a way to turn trade with the Empire to Ankh-Morpork's advantage. Lord Vetinari was slightly irritated that he hadn't managed to do that himself.

            There were shouts from outside and the carriage suddenly lurched forward. The horses reached a steady walk. At the turn to the Maul, the Patrician looked out the window just as they passed two bad-tempered mules, a clutch of angry workmen in overalls, several farmers, a large sow, a group of hearty market women with baskets over their arms, and a pair of scruffy lads on top of a vegetable cart with three wheels. They were gathered at the side of the road at the behest of Sergeant Colon, who seemed to be explaining something as Corporal Nobbs held up first a green paddle, then a red. The Traffic Division of the City Watch at work.

            Lord Vetinari leaned back. A tunnel under the Ankh for commercial traffic. A toll of some kind might make such a thing financially feasible if the technical aspects could be worked out…

***

            Klieg lay in Beber's coffin but couldn't sleep. The lord had been an unsatisfying meal, and all the more so now that she'd discovered what lay ahead of her, the possibilities in the glorious Isabella. She wished it was night, that she could go out into the air. Perhaps she would kiss her that night. 

            Her mission, though… 

            Klieg turned over in the coffin, lying on her stomach now, her cheek on her arm and thought of the last time she and Lady Margolotta had spoken about Havelock Vetinari. 

            "I imagine he has grown to be a very distingvished man," she'd said, black smoke from her cigarette curling to the ceiling of the parlour in her castle. "A gentleman. He vas a delight as a young man, you know. A treat." And she'd taken another puff through her cigarette holder.

            Smoking was an affectation Margolotta took to dampen her craving for blood, but Klieg hated it for a different reason. The smell. Margolotta's basic scent had changed for the worse, and Klieg was sensitive to such things. She'd taken to breathing through her mouth in Margolotta's presence. Yet the tobacco leaves, Black Scopani, grown in total darkness, she loved the smell of those. Unburned. Pure. She carried a bit around with her and held them to her nose when she tired of smelling so many unwashed humans on the streets of Ankh-Morpork.

            Klieg knew what a treat Vetinari had been because Margolotta had told her the story so many times. To the point of irritation and beyond. Klieg knew that he'd arrived in Uberwald on the Grand Sneer, a tour noblemen made of foreign countries before settling down for a life of leisure and mischief. He was eighteen. When his companions continued their journey, he stayed for some weeks. 

            Every detail had been told to Klieg. Every chess remis, every conversation on human nature and control and political manipulation. A genius in the making, Margolotta had said. A ruler preparing for his realm. If Klieg hadn't also heard Margolotta in her less enthusiastic moments – when she spoke of Vetinari's single-minded ambition, his obssessiveness, cynicism, coldness and pessimism about the ability of people to change in a fundamental way – Klieg would have imagined him some kind of a perfect being. A giant striding twenty feet tall over the pigmy citizens of Ankh-Morpork.

            Reality, of course, was different.

            Klieg tossed in Beber's coffin again but couldn't find a comfortable position.  

            The feast of Isabella first. There would be time for Vetinari afterward. Lady Margolotta was not there to monitor her.


	8. Fallen Leaves

**Fast Updates 'R' Us! The next few should be pretty fast (*nods to Yap!*). **

8. Fallen Leaves

            Ponder Stibbons, Unseen University's youngest faculty wizard, held up two suction cups from which thin wires dangled.

            "It won't hurt at all, ma'am," he said. He glanced at the complicated, ant-filled glass and rubber tubes that made up a part of the central processing unit of Hex, the Disc's first artificial intelligence. "At least, I don't _think_ it will…"

            Isabella and the Patrician had conferenced with the senior faculty for a half hour and Ponder had been bouncing around Isabella like a child with a new toy. The thaumometer had detected traces of octarine on her, which he said could conceivably explain Angua's comment about Isabella having too many colours. Octarine was the eighth colour in the spectrum but it was also the colour of magic, which at the very least was capable of upsetting a swamp dragon and confusing a werewolf's nose. Isabella's iconograph also shimmered with an octarine film, but the wizards couldn't say exactly what that meant. To be on the safe side, Ponder suggested Isabella send over the gown she'd been found in to see if it also carried octarine.

            Yet he really threw his scant weight behind the wizard Orangeleaf's club sandwich theory. Problem was, he had trouble coming up with vocabulary for what he wanted to say. Spontaneous movement between points…no, worlds…no, _universes_ was an exciting concept. After a battery of questions, he'd convinced Isabella and Vetinari to accompany him to the High Energy Magic Building, where Hex was the baby of the younger, more modern wizards. The Patrician looked over the apparatus with obvious suspicion.

            "Is there a danger of explosion, Mister Stibbons?" He eyed the crackling light in the dome above him that signalled thaums, the smallest units of magic, being spun in what was apparently a controlled environment.

            "Oh, yes, your lordship," said Ponder. "But that's also true of the paint factory on Dulcet Street."

            "I take it exploding paint wouldn't throw the Disc's balance of magic into chaos."

            "Octarine paint would," said Mustrum Ridcully, Archchancellor of the university. "There was a young wizard, what was his name, now? Scrawny fellow, not enough hair, and he wrote his thesis on the uses of octarine dyes in commercial enterprises. Whatever happened to him?"

            "Fell into a vat of it, Mustrum," said the Dean. "You remember. When we pulled him out he was stiff as a board. I think he's still stored in one of the cellars."

            "I thought octarine breath mints was a good idea," said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. "Certainly better than that idea of his for octarine…" he looked at his colleagues, his face growing pink. "_You_ know…"

            There was silence for a moment. Several wizards made a point to look somewhere other than at the only lady in the room.

            "You'd think it'd be quite a job to get the octarine to stick to the rubber," said the Senior Wrangler thoughtfully. 

            "Octarine isn't like rain, Senior Wrangler," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "True, if you have a good pair of rubbers, water will slide right down. If it was raining octarine, a process much like the application of glue would occur naturally from the--"

            "Runes!" said Ridcully sharply. "We're in the presence of a lady."

            Lord Vetinari was silently amazed at how quickly the conversation had turned from advanced magic to, if he was hearing the sub-text right, contraceptives. Like every time he was in the presence of the wizards for more than five minutes, he was vaguely uneasy that these were the men with power to rupture space and time as he knew it simply by mispronouncing a spell or letting their minds wander during a complex ritual. And with the exception of Ponder, theirs were wandering minds indeed.

            "What is it you hope to discover with this…machine, Mister Stibbons?"

            "Maybe Hex can tell us what conditions are needed for a Spontaneous Trans-Universe Movement, or STUM." Ponder smiled happily. He loved inventing acronyms.

            "Have you tried it before?" asked Isabella.

            Ponder looked uncomfortable. "Not as such. I've never had anyone here from another part of spacetime. But I've been thinking about this issue for a while, and in theory, it should work."

            "In theory."

            "I promise the moment anything looks wrong I'll disconnect you."

            Isabella glanced at Vetinari, who frowned and said, "There are no alternatives, Mister Stibbons?"

            "We don't have much direct experience with things quantum, sir. But I assure you, there's really nothing to worry about." Ponder didn't look convinced himself.

            Ridcully stepped in. "If Mister Stibbons says it's safe, Madam, then you can rely on it. Bright fellow. And if something happens, we'll expel him."

            "I'm not a student anymore, Archchancellor," said Ponder wearily.

            "Then we'll withdraw your tenure." Ridcully clapped his hands. "Are we ready? It's almost lunchtime."

            Isabella took a seat on the stool in front of Hex's console, and Ponder attached the suction cups to her temples. The other end of the wires he stuck into various small holes in a square section of the central processing unit. He tapped a bit on the keyboard in front of Hex's output screen and the whine of spinning thaums above them increased. 

            The group waited. Isabella closed her eyes because it bothered her to have everyone staring at her. She felt warmth beneath the suction cups but nothing uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Ponder tapped something else onto the keyboard and the heat at Isabella's temples sharpened, like someone had lit a match next to her skin. She flinched. Lord Vetinari laid a steadying hand on her shoulder and frowned at Ponder, who scurried to make some adjustments. 

            Finally, there was a clattering sound and a slip of paper came out of a slit next to the control unit. Ponder read it closely.

            "Well?" asked Ridcully.

            "It says some things about glass mulberries… A bit of garble, there." Ponder glanced at the Patrician with embarrassment. "But here it says that slips in spacetime are naturally occurring. There are some bits about, er, club sandwiches, interestingly enough. There's something about," Ponder frowned, "worms, for whatever reason. Oh, yes and then here it says that STUMs are rare. That is…" Ponder's voice faded.

            "Please continue, Mister Stibbons."

            "They occur at random, but Hex calculated a projected average of once every 275.876 years."

            "_Good gods,_" said Isabella.

            "In one direction," continued Ponder. "Hex says it's possible for a STUM to occur  sooner going the other way. Apparently, there's always the opportunity for a return trip once someone has gone through a slip. Law of symmetry and so forth. It's hard to predict when, though. Not sooner than a few weeks after the first event because of…" Ponder eyed the paper. "…the integrity of the wave-form boundaries between…jelly beans."

            "I don't see what jelly beans have to do with it," said the Senior Wrangler.

            "That machine of yours is a heap of scrap, isn't it, Mister Stibbons?" 

            "Dean!"

            "I said _scrap_, Mustrum. I'm right, aren't I, Runes?"

            "Gentlemen," said the Patrician, "it appears that all we've learned is _if_ Miss Capelli is a victim of this Spontaneous--"

            "STUM is easier, milord," said Ponder. He withered under the Patrician's glare.

            "Spontaneous Trans-Universe Movement, she will be staying with us anywhere between a few weeks and just under 276 years. I don't find that especially helpful. Particularly because the _if_ in this situation is the size of a small continent." He held out his hand and Ponder gave him the output sheet from Hex. 

            "There appear to be inconsistencies in your machine, Mister Stibbons. There is mention of three edible substances, four if we count worms, which I've heard are sometimes beloved of young children." The Patrician frowned. "I am all for the march of technology, up to a point, but I must conclude that Hex is either malfunctioning due to hunger or is something along the lines of what the Dean so aptly described." 

            "Hex can't be hungry, sir." Ponder cleared his throat. "We just gave it a sandwich an hour ago. "

            "I have a small request, Mister Stibbons. After you disconnect Miss Capelli, look elsewhere for more specific information about movement between universes."

            "Most of what we know about things quantum is theory, milord. There isn't a lot of accurate--"

            "I have every _confidence_," said Vetinari, smiling in his quietly unsettling way, "that you will find a solution in a timely manner. Certainly in less than 276 years. I know the entire senior faculty of this great educational establishment will do its utmost to assist me." He gazed benevolently at the wizards. "Your eagerness to assist will be a sign of the healthy relationship between civic and magical authorities, hm?"

            The relationship between the Patrician and the wizards tended to be along the lines of Don't call us, we'll call you. This arrangement was comfortable for both parties, though the Archchancellor had the sense that an end to it would be far more uncomfortable for him than the Patrician. Unpleasant things like taxes might be brought up. He cleared his throat.

             "You can count on us, your lordship," he said.

            On the streets, traffic was lighter. Isabella sat quietly in the carriage, her hands clasped in her lap.

            "I would like you to stay at the Palace until this is sorted out," said the Patrician. "Lady Sybil and Sir Samuel have done more than enough to look after you. I think the responsibility is now mine."

            The carriage avoided the traffic around the Plaza of Broken Moons by turning down Ars Lane to the Eight Deadly Sins. Isabella rang the little bell that signalled the driver should stop. Outside, the red and gold columns of a Lingian temple gleamed in the sunlight.

            "Monks?" the Patrician said doubtfully.

            "I'm collecting explanations for what's happened. Six so far." Isabella sighed as she climbed out of the carriage. "Be back before dark."

**

            It was Captain Carrot who knocked on the right door. This wasn't that unusual, since Carrot, adopted dwarf, Watchman by choice and rightful but disinterested king of Ankh-Morpork, had a knack for getting just about anyone to behave with the steady, upright honesty he himself always showed. 

            So when the shabby door of yet another house in the Shades opened up to his knock, the woman, bumble bee-stomached and wearing a kerchief tied around her neck, looked up at Carrot with surprise that turned quickly to utter relief.

            "Oh, what a weight it's been on me poor heart!" she cried, pulling Carrot inside. He had to duck under the low door frame. The air smelled of well-worn boots and the memory of stale bacon. The furniture was rough, brown, bent, frayed. Carrot had to stoop if he didn't want his head through the ceiling.

            "Three nights ago, it happened," she said. "An' I haven't had a decent night's sleep since."

            "I'm here to put your mind at rest, good woman," said Carrot.

            "I tol' my son, I tol'm to call the Watch but he was against it. But I say, you don't find two bodies drained…drained o' every livin' drop o' blood, and not say somethin'."

            If the room hadn't been so cramped, Carrot would have straightened with the resolve of his duty as a policeman.

            "Will you show me where they were found, ma'am?"

            She led the way down to the cellar. In the light of her grubby stub of a candle, Carrot saw immediately the shelves stacked with brass spittoons, silver candlesticks, cutlery, and other objects distinctly out of place in the poor hovel. Normally ultra-honest, Carrot had been a copper long enough to know what his priorities were. He ignored the goods.

            "Can you tell me what happened, ma'am?"

            "Three nights ago I found two bodies just a'layin' here on the ground. Right where you're standin'. It was horrible. They was white as…" She had trouble coming up with a metaphor for anything white. People in the Shades didn't use sheets and when it did snow in Ankh-Morpork, a weak yellow colour was more accurate. "White as…white. I screams and calls me son and he got rid of 'em."

            "Got rid of 'em?" said Carrot, grimly, scanning the ground in the dim candlelight.

            "Dumped 'em in the Ankh. I know it wasn't right, but we was scared." Her voice dropped. "And them vampires ha' been gettin' _worse_."

            "Did you know who they were?" asked Carrot. "The bodies."

            "Never seen 'em before in me life."

            Carrot again showed how far he'd come as a cop. The obvious lie of the woman was set aside in favour of something he spotted on the floor.

            "Could I use your candle for a moment, ma'am?"

            Carrot was hunched over to begin with in the low cellar, but now he crouched down and examined the floor in the candlelight. It was dirt. Centuries of dirt stomped down by generations of feet until it was almost as smooth and hard as stone. A rather brown-black stone. A darker blackness in one small part caught his attention. He lifted a few gritty, black leaves between his fingers.

            "Wha's that, then?" asked the woman.

            Carrot held the leaves to his nose. And then blinked. And then wiped the tear from his eye. The smell could seduce an elephant. He tucked the leaves into a folded piece of paper. 

            "I think you better tell me what part of the river the bodies were dumped in, ma'am," he said. "And it is my duty to tell you that it's wrong to steal."

**

            "I am a fool. Yes! I am addle-headed, like the monkey upside down in a tree." The Dali Pooka made little gestures around his head, which Isabella assumed to refer to his addle-headedness. 

            The Lingian monk had the misfortune to be tall in a tradition which valued smallness. He walked with a hunch, he sat with shoulder and head bowed and always appeared to talk to the floor. His bright red and yellow robe only reached his knees; whoever made Lingian holy wear didn't take into account that anyone would be so much bigger than the average size. Dali Pooka was a head taller than the rest of the monks Isabella had seen when she was escorted through the temple courtyard to his prayer pavilion. He covered up the shortfall in robe by wearing knee-high red socks.

            "Everyone is busy, but I alone am idle," he said to the polished walnut floor, on which he and Isabella sat opposite each other on red cushions. "Other men are strong and brave, but I alone am weak and cowardly. Other men are clever, but I alone am stupid. Wandering the Disc in an aimless walk," he jumped up to demonstrate this, "like a restless wind."

            He sat again and smiled with satisfaction at the floor.

            "Your holiness, you have a reputation for great wisdom," said Isabella, though she was having doubts about her sources. They quite possibly didn't exist if, for instance, the theory of the philosopher Vitalites was correct.

            "The wise! The wise!" cried Dali Pooka. "When men begin to call themselves wise, so arises pretence. With pretence comes the straying off the True Path."

            "Ah," said Isabella. "Well, that's just what I wanted to speak with you about." 

            She related her tale just as she had to Vimes, Vetinari, the Chief Priest of Blind Io, Vitalites, Orangeleaf and the wizards at Unseen University. She referred to her friend Nancy. When she was finished, Dali Pooka nodded as if he'd heard the whole thing before.

            "It is clear as rainfall," he said. "Your friend is dreaming."

            Isabella closed her eyes. "Is she."

            "Oh, yes. When we sleep, we are awake. When we dream, we create a new reality. This world," Dali Pooka gave a wave that encompassed the great brass gong at the end of the room and the corridors to the temple courtyard and the sky outside, "is only an invention of the dreams of others. You are here because I am dreaming of you, and I am here because you are dreaming of me. We are both dreaming of the gong and the temple courtyard. You see?"

            "Yes," Isabella said, though she wasn't being altogether honest. Normally, she didn't question reality too often. But these were not normal times.

            Dali Pooka beamed. "Your friend has simply awakened in someone else's dream of reality. And like in dreams, it is a world not unlike the one she knows, but different."

            "It makes sense," said Isabella gloomily.

            "I should hope not. Dreams never make sense. People who try to find meaning in dreams are like fallen leaves looking for meaning in the forest." Dali Pooka rubbed his hands. "I'm dreaming right now of a hot tea. Would you like some?"

            Isabella politely refused and left the temple feeling vaguely as if she really was walking in a dream. It was something like the feeling she'd had when she awakened in the guest room at Sybil's five days ago. The cotton-headed sensation had come from the fever, she thought, but it was perfectly possible it was something else. Something more fundamental. 

            She waved at a cab up the street. Questioning reality was… It was out of the question. Wherever she was, that was real. It had to be. Anything else would be insanity. 

            The cab, for instance, was real. Solid wood, well polished. The driver was real. Isabella would have never voluntarily dreamed of a man with such bad teeth. She climbed into the cab and gave the driver an address. The carriage seat felt real, and the horses certainly smelled like it. She was sure she would have dreamed a more pleasant smell for the city in general if she'd had the choice to affect reality in that way.

            The carriage headed for Scoone Avenue. Isabella owed Sybil something for her hospitality; maybe a design for new dragon stables would do it. Then off to the Temple of Blind Io. If she couldn't see if her life was real, perhaps she'd have more luck with her death.


	9. A Civic minded Vampire

9. A Civic-minded Vampire

            Shortly after nightfall, widdershins of the river…

            Vimes took a long, appraising look at the vampire sitting across from him and Sergeant Angua at the Cock and Bull, a tavern none of them had ever been to, but which was known for discretion among its servers, who were accustomed to a clientele that didn't want too much attention. At the early hour, most of the tables were empty. At one, a bearded man wrote on a small piece of paper, seemingly at the dictation of the sleek young man sitting beside him. At another table, a woman calmly counted what in the flash of the dim lights looked like gold pieces. No one paid attention to her.

            In plain clothes Vimes never felt comfortable, but Angua had insisted that her acquaintance wouldn't want to be seen talking to a watchman in full armour. The suit jacket Vimes wore was something Sibyl had rustled up and it was fine, but the shirt with its starched collar chafed like the devil. He kept pulling at it.

            The vampire sat erect and still, his face bland. Instead of the usual black, he wore a dark brown suit with a voluminous tie. He wore a diamond stud in his right ear and his black hair was worn to the shoulders and tied back with a black ribbon. Vimes had limited dealings with vampires, even during his recent trip to Uberwald, but he saw in the eyes of this one what he'd seen in the others, in Lady Margolotta especially: A quiet watchfulness. A patience that was disturbing in its completeness. Sitting across from him was one of the few creatures in the world with time.

            Angua introduced him as Pefka.

            "How long have you been in the city?" Vimes asked.

            "Most of my life, sir." Vimes noticed he spoke softly, without opening his mouth too much.

            "And…how long might that be?" 

            "Two hundred and seven years. I was not born this way; I was converted, a story I need not tell. Suffice it to say I have learned to survive here as the generations change."

            "You don't have the usual vampire accent."

            "That is one survival tactic. I have others."

            Vimes looked at Angua, who watched in silence. He pulled out a cigar and turned it over in his fingers.

            "You're a Black Ribboner, then?"

            "No."

            The cigar slipped out of Vimes' fingers, rolled across the table and Angua scooped it up. 

            "I thought--" 

            "Yes, most vampires in the city are attached to that group in some way or another," said Pefka. "I, however, am not a joiner." He gave a quick, close-mouthed smile. "Sing-songs and so forth I find rather embarrassing. I have my own system, in which I have reduced my intake of human blood to an absolute minimum and supplement my diet in other, less offensive ways."

            "A minimum is still a damned lot when we're talking about," Vimes grimaced, "feeding on people."

            "I do not feed on anyone. I have a companion who supplies me with what I need. Voluntarily," Pefka added. "She receives in return some small benefit."

            Vimes lit his cigar just to have something to do. The conversation was flowing in directions he didn't want it to go.

            "Am I to understand you pay someone to give you blood? If it isn't already illegal, I'm going to get the Patrician to change that."

            Pefka smiled again. "That is a common trade, but in my case, no money changes hands, sir. Payment is more subtle."

            Vimes' gaze slid to Angua, who sat stony and neutral. 

            "All right. I don't think I want to hear anymore," he said. "Angua explained what we need?" 

            Pefka nodded.

            "We've had a dozen vampires hurt in the past few days by Morporkians. Why haven't any fought back?"

            "Black Ribboners must swear not to hurt humans."

            "Not at all? Even when one is running at them with a stick with a nail on the end?"

            Pefka folded his hands on the table. "You must understand the nature of craving, sir. If a Black Ribboner spills blood, merely the scent of it, and the excitement that comes at the moment of violence, are enough to make him forget his vows. It takes only one bite and he will feed again. It is inevitable in such circumstances."

            Vimes did know the nature of craving, and thought Pefka was at least making sense. He'd had his doubts, but maybe Angua had made the right choice after all.

            "How many vampires in the city are not Black Ribboners?"

            Pefka tipped his head slightly to one side, as if counting. "Mm, at the moment, I'd say about twenty."

            "Is that all?"

            "We're a bit of a closed club."

            "You know them all."

            "Of course. We…sense each other. The scent of a vampire who still feeds on human blood is different than one who doesn't." 

            Vimes flipped his notebook open on the table.

            "Right. Give me their names and where they're staying, and we can get this case wrapped up."

            Pefka held up a hand. "I'm sorry, sir. I won't do that, and furthermore, I feel it isn't necessary. As I said before, we are a closed club. We know one another and we…monitor each other. Even among us, there are codes of conduct. You look like you have doubts and I understand that. We are not very public about our actions, but amongst ourselves we know who is buying human blood and who is trading for it, as I am. These are the two acceptable ways of acquiring it. If one of us murdered to feed, the others would find out very quickly. And would likely do something about it. A murderer endangers all of us, as is obvious with the unrest we've been seeing."

            Vimes let the ash from his cigar drift onto the floor of the tavern. 

            "You think it's a new vampire, new to the city, then?"

            "I'm sure of it, sir. There is no other explanation. The rest of us have met to discuss the issue already. We are all on the alert."

            Angua spoke up for the first time since she introduced Pefka. "I told him about the black hair we found, sir."

            Pefka nodded. "There are only five lady vampires who are not Black Ribboners. The ladies are, as you might guess, the driving force behind the movement. Those who are not involved are accounted for and are not responsible for the killings. "

            "How do you know?" said Vimes.

            "Their scent, sir. Most of us exist on only a partial diet of human blood. It appears the vampire responsible for the deaths consumes nothing else. She will have a very specific scent."

            Vimes felt for the second time like he had stumbled into a world completely foreign to him, where the invisible mark of scent told more than the eyes could ever see. Angua and the vampire Pefka were part of this world, and he, with his nose dulled by the stench of the Ankh, was definitely not. 

            "So it's possible for another vampire to smell her out?" said Vimes.

            "Certainly. Our dear Angua, here, could also if the Ankh was a bit less rank this season. But as it is, only another vampire can reliably track the killer by smell. I have, of course, volunteered myself for the task."

            Vimes stared at him suspiciously. "What do you expect in return?"

            Pefka smiled, this time showing his teeth. It was not a comforting sight. "I expect the satisfaction of having done my civic duty, sir. I am an Ankh-Morpork vampire. The Uberwaldeans are kin, though the immigrants seem foreign to me. I will not allow a single, misguided newcomer to destroy the small community built up in _my_ city."

            Vimes blew a large cloud from his cigar. A civic-minded vampire. That wasn't something he expected to find. 

            "Then welcome aboard." 

            He took a folded piece of paper from his pocket and slid it across the table. Pefka opened it and examined the black leaves Captain Carrot had found in the Shades.

            "Black Scopani," he said.

            Vimes wasn't surprised because he'd smelled something like the leaves before. In Uberwald. In the home of Lady Margolotta, who had told him of this special tobacco grown in total darkness. She smoked it like a chimney and by extension, her parlour stunk like one. The cigars Vimes smoked were a refreshing potpourri by comparison.

            "It looks like our vampire brought the habit with her," said Vimes. "Nobody's been able to grow it outside of Uberwald and it costs a fortune to import."

            "It's a rare delicacy, sir," said Pefka. "Only the richest vampires can afford it."

            "Who are the richest vampires in Ankh-Morpork?" asked Vimes.

            Pefka smiled and passed the tobacco back across the table. "The new immigrants tend to be less financially stable for obvious reasons. Those of us who have been in the city for a few lifetimes are better off."

            "_You're_ one of the richest vampires in the city," said Vimes.

            "Yes. But as I said before, the vampire you want is not from here."

            "If I can trust your word." Vimes glared through his cigar smoke.

            "It is your choice, sir. I do advise you, however, to look closer at the richest vampires in Uberwald. That list I will be happy to give you if I may borrow a pencil."    

**

            The Patrician didn't look up from his reading until the man with the narrow face had been standing in the Oblong Office for a long, silent and suitably threatening minute. 

            When he did look up, things got worse for Mr. Goldwall.

            "Perhaps you didn't quite notice on your way here," said the Patrician, "but it is dark outside. An hour after nightfall by my calculations."

            "We intended to bring her in, sir, but she was in a bit of a state after she left the cemetery."

            "A state."

            "Like if any of us tried to touch her she'd rip our faces off."

            Ah, the Patrician thought without letting his unsettling gaze leave Mr. Goldwall's face. _That_ kind of state. He'd expected Isabella to react to her tomb with a kind of mobile catatonia but obviously she'd opted for anger. If she was innocent of complicity in a plot, if this whole thing was a case of magic gone awry, she might not know who to be angry at. This was potentially dangerous for all concerned.

            "Where is she now?"

            "Not far, sir. She's in a bar off Sator Square. Larry's keeping an eye on her."

            "What is she drinking?"

            "Cheapest beer on offer, sir. It looks like she doesn't have much money. She was at the bottom of her second when I left."

            The Patrician removed a small but reassuringly full money purse from his desk and tossed it to Goldwall.

            "Give her this with my compliments. Encourage her to switch to cognac. In two hours I want her back."

            Goldwall hefted the purse.

            "She won't come on her own two feet if she drinks all this."

            "Then carry her, Mr. Goldwall," said the Patrician, returning to his papers. "I believe she could use the support."


	10. Discard the Past

** 

10. Discard the Past

            The servant chosen by Lady Sybil to carry Isabella's gown to Unseen University was an old Ramkin family retainer unlikely to make off with the most gorgeous gown Sybil had ever seen. Isabella had mentioned the errand in passing before she left; she'd been vague about why it needed to be done. Sybil drew the obvious conclusions; the Lady Vetinari issue had something to do with magic. Though Sybil was sorry to see the silk and gold folded into a box and wrapped in parcel paper, it was Isabella's gown and Isabella could do with it as she wanted. At least Sybil got to help, to feel the cool water of the fabric once more before the lid was placed securely on the box and the straps were buckled. 

            His name was George and he'd been around when Sybil was born, when she had her moderately disappointing "coming out" party, when she cared for her aged father, when she married Sam Vimes. He didn't do much around the house anymore because of the rheumatism and that nasty lung thing that wouldn't go away but Sybil trusted him absolutely. After a nap,  a healthy supper and another nap, he limped and coughed his way to the carriage, the package under his arm.

            In Sator Square, George limped and coughed his way to the gates of Unseen University, coughed to the night porter about his errand and made a grand show of rubbing his back in hopes that if he looked miserable enough, somebody inside would give him a nip of whiskey to ease the pain.

            Then he stepped through the gates.

            Mustrum Ridcully dropped the fish hook he'd been stringing with a new and colorful lure.

            The quill Ponder Stibbons was writing with in his office froze, then fell softly from his fingers.

            The Librarian, an orang-utan enjoying a post-supper banana in a quiet corner of the library, said "Ook" as the peel slipped from his hand. 

            There should have been a rumble of thunder. There should have been silence across the city, the sound of a million people taking a deep breath. 

            Instead, experienced wizards in all corners of the university stopped what they were doing, their spines tingling, the hairs on their arms and the back of their necks painfully erect, like radar. The Librarian looked like he'd blow dried his fur at too high a setting. 

            By the time George had limped to the doors to the Great Hall, the senior faculty with the exception of Ridcully gathered in a nervous line inside. The other wizards who felt the tingling thought it best to stay away. The Librarian was there. He was wearing an oversized yellow rain poncho and a hat to disguise the frizz. 

            At a nod from the Dean, the porters opened the doors.

            George coughed.

            "Package for…uh…(cough)…Professor uh…(hack)…Stibbons."

            George stepped over the threshold.

            The senior faculty, including Ponder, took one step backward.

            "Lady Sybil sent me," George said. "For that other woman. Tall, dark, nose like a cucumber." He added a cough because it looked like he'd forgot it and he was still hoping for that whiskey.

            The wizards went into a huddle. 

            "You ordered something, Stibbons?" said the Dean.

            "The gown, sir."

            "What, your wizardly robes aren't good enough for you anymore?"

            "I don't want to _wear_ it."

            "Where's the Archchancellor?" said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.

            "Haven't seen him, sir."

            "I thought he was going fishing."

            "Next month up in Lancre," said the Dean. "You can't fish in the Ankh, man."

            "I thought he was planning a Circle Sea expedition," said the Senior Wrangler. "He planned to get himself another trophy. The old one was starting to smell. You noticed it, didn't you?"

            A few wizards nodded.

            "Woe's me back," said George to get their attention again.

**

            _This_ was the life.

            Candles behind red, gold and yellow cloth, casting flickering light over the dance floor. Mirrored ball spinning overhead. Well-stocked bar. Music with a throbbing beat – the drummer looked to be an overenthusiastic accountant but his fellow musicians were really with it – the guitarist, violinist, trumpeter and pianist wore matching flared red riding pants. And what looked like Watch helmets. 

            And the people! 

            They had no self control whatsoever. They swayed, bobbed, bounced, spun or generally waved their hands in the air. The singer – a woman with more cleavage than hair – told them to. 

            "Put your hands in the air and shake it like you just don't care!"

            People waved. People shook.

            Klieg downed her second vodka lemon and pocketed her "Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork." The guide had said The Swinging Monkey was the hottest dance club in town. Well. She couldn't argue with that. The hottest dance club in Uberwald was run by a family of accordian-playing Igors. It didn't take much to beat that.

            And the best part was…the _really_ best part was, the other vampires in the place couldn't smell her. She knew it. Lack of blood stunted their sense of smell. Better yet, they were too drunk to sort her out. After cigarettes and coffee, alcohol was the next favorite bad habit picked up by Black Ribboners, despite the censure of purists like Lady Margolotta. Klieg wasn't a Black Ribboner anymore but she still appreciated a good vodka. 

            "Put your hands in the air!"

            Klieg went out on the dance floor and put her hands in the air.

            "And shake it like you just don't care!"

            Klieg didn't quite know what the "it" was that she was supposed to shake, but after observation of the crowd, she concluded it was optional. She started at the shoulders and worked her way down. 

            The not caring part was easy. She really didn't care who saw her, what they thought of her or her diet or her political views. For once, for a few blessed minutes, she didn't have a care in the world.

**

            "Gentlemen! Step aside!"

            The Archchancellor Mustrum Ridcully paused dramatically in the center of Unseen University's Great Hall. He was wearing his Wow-Wow Sauce gear. 

            The instability of the Ridcully family's special sauce made it necessary to produce it only in a remote corner of a building that no one would miss if it happened to explode, leaving behind a week's worth of vaguely mushroomy fumes. It goes without saying that the brave soul who handled Wow-Wow Sauce had to wear protection.

            Ridcully wore a striped mattress strapped to the front of his spangled wizard's robe with a couple of thick ropes. The knightly neck plate over his shoulders gleamed dully in the light of the hall's chandeliers, which also illuminated the delicate embossing on the gauntlets he wore. An iron welder's mask sat snuggly on his face, under his pointy hat. 

            He brandished a massive pair of iron tongs that he'd hurriedly magicked on the way over.

            "I will be taking the package, my man," he said.

            George knew wizards were daft but he hadn't expected this. He held the package straight out, both arms extended as far as the rheumy would allow.

            The wizards took another collective step back.

            Ridcully eased forward tongs first, step by excruciating step, like he was moving through gelatin. 

            Ponder Stibbons held his breath.

            The Librarian covered his eyes with two leathery hands.

            The tongs were slowly opened, a great iron jaw at the ready.

            To pass the time, George took the opportunity to cough. More like a hack, really. 

            And of course…

            …the box slipped from his hands. It didn't tumble but it did seem to fall at the rate of a slow motion action sequence.

            The wizards froze in petrified horror.

            Ridcully leapt, did a rolling somersault on the floor and emerged at just the right level to catch the package with his tongs.

            "Sorry about that," said George.

            "Oooook."

            The Dean wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

            "You can say that again, Librarian."

**

            A half hour after the agent Goldwall left the Oblong Office, the Patrician was sitting in a room high up in the Palace on a stained arm chair with something Leonard of Quirm called a Whirled Fruit Drink in his hand. The room was massive and contained everything Leonard needed to create, draw, drill, hammer, paint and manage any other general tinkering. At the moment the white-bearded genius with the souffle-like dome of a head was enthusing over his new Fruit Whirl Machine. It crushed fruit into a thick and barely drinkable mass. The sour smell of old fruit peels had accosted Lord Vetinari the moment he stepped into the workshop.

            "…so what you have there, milord, is the orange, melon, lemon variety." Leonard flapped his hands eagerly at the Patrician. "Go on, try it."

            Out of politeness, the Patrician took a drink. The inside of his cheeks shrunk.

            "A bit heavy on the lemon," he said through slightly pursed lips. He carefully set the glass aside.

            Leonard looked concerned. "I only put three in. A sweetener, then. Perhaps a ripe pear would do the trick?" He wandered over to a crate of mixed fruit.

             "Leonard, do you remember Isabella Capelli?"

            The honey dew melons in Leonard's hands dropped back into the box.

            "I certainly do, milord. Lovely child. When I was helping her father with that new ship…shame about the rutter, in the end…yes, she didn't mind at all when I corrected her sketches. Her human forms were unremarkable but her structures were excellent for such a young girl. She had a gift for perspective." Leonard brightened. "Her skills must be even more impressive now. She should be, oh, quite a bit older."

            "Thirty-nine."

            Leonard gave a pear in his fruit box a thoughtful squeeze.

            "Time flies, doesn't it, milord?"

            In Vetinari's experience, time was more like those weak practical jokers who stood behind you, tapped you on the shoulder and fled so you wouldn't know who did it. It didn't surprise him that Leonard didn't know Isabella was supposed to be dead. Leonard tended to miss a lot of things, which was just fine by the Patrician. It was part of the reason Leonard was kept locked in the attic of the Palace.

            Leonard abandoned the pear and opted to dump sugar in the fruit drink Lord Vetinari had set aside.

            "I didn't know you knew her, milord," he said as he stirred the fruit mass. "You never mentioned her before."

            When the Patrician didn't answer, Leonard glanced up from his work. The look on Lord Vetinari's face made him slowly set aside the glass.

            "Maybe you can tell me about it, milord."

**

            Klieg was in such a good mood when she left the Swinging Monkey that she decided to only feed on three children. She'd decided on children for their outrage value. The Morporkians were already on edge. Tomorrow they'd go over the top. 

**

            Lord Vetinari talked for an hour without interruption.

            He spoke in measured tones, telling everything in chronological order beginning with the Merchants Guild reception, where he and Isabella had danced a single gavotte, not out of any interest in her on his part but because he had danced with the daughters of all of the officers of the guild. It showed willing. If Vetinari could have got away with dancing with the guild president's son, he would have done it.

            The note she sent him afterward seemed to him like a presumption but he didn't ignore it because he was interested in what she had seen at the bridge. He sent a written request for a drawing. She sent him several, all of different city bridges. 

            One look at these and he invited her to his home in Ankh for a discussion. She explained the difference between an arch and beam bridge and outlined their strengths and weaknesses. Then she introduced the idea of a completely new type of bridge, one without piles or supports of any kind in the water itself. It would be a bridge that hung _over_ the water, suspended on cables of metal that was both flexible and nearly unbreakable. She hadn't found a metal yet that could do that but she knew some dwarves who were experimenting with certain alloys.

            The conversation was so interesting that he invited her again. This time she spoke of buildings around the city that needed structural improvements, including the Palace. Just like when she talked of bridges, the longer the conversation went, the more it moved into the realm of fantasy. There was a lack of office space in the city, she said, so why not redevelop a section of town for office towers built of glass and stone? Cloud needles, she called them. As tall as the Palace, the Tower of Art, even. The problem was with the supports. Stone walls had to be extremely thick the higher a building was, but if supporting steel beams were laced like a skeleton, maybe that would suffice to hold everything up in a stiff wind. Most of the rest of the building, she assured him, could be glass. 

            As she talked, she sketched with such precision that Lord Vetinari began to have an inkling of the type of mind she had.

            Talent should be recognized, encouraged and used. It was a philosophy he'd acquired early on from his aunt, who had practiced it on him. 

            Encouragement was what Isabella needed. At the time, the Guild of Architects refused to allow female members. She spent her days drawing the city and learning what she could from books. Lord Vetinari became her patron. He bought books and measuring instruments that she couldn't afford. He supplied her with all of the drafting paper she could want and paid someone else to do the tedious work of drawing on the grids. It was all done quietly so as not to upset Isabella's parents. Or the Architects. They weren't an  important guild in Vetinari's plans to take over the city, but there was no reason to make another enemy. 

            Charity was not an option. Isabella expected to pay and so she willingly fulfilled the little requests Lord Vetinari made now and then. Drawings of certain bridges, gates, streets, buildings. He never told her why he wanted them. 

            After a couple of months, his interests shifted to mapping and he imposed on Isabella's "debt" to help him. They did surveys in the city together in the winter twilight and Isabella did the drawing. 

            Leonard listened. He didn't fidget and he didn't tinker. He was listening so intently that it wasn't difficult to notice Lord Vetinari gloss over most of the rest of the period up to Isabella's funeral. The carriage accident was news to Leonard but he let Lord Vetinari keep talking and eventually learned, of course, that Isabella seemed to be alive and well and getting herself drunk on cognac in a local bar. 

            "Of course!" said Leonard. "The Helmet-headed Shipworm. The tunnel under the Ankh is a fascinating idea, milord. Perhaps I could design an iron shield for the workers if I adjust the…" He fell into mumbling as he slipped behind his work table and located a pencil.

            The Patrician left him because he'd done what he'd come to do, which was talk. He was back in his office when Mr. Goldwall knocked on the door and asked where his lordship wanted Miss Capelli.

            She was slumped in one of the waiting room chairs. She looked like hell.

            Lord Vetinari dismissed his agents and sat beside her.

            "I've been told such things are easier for the Undead," he said. "They cease to have certain glands. It doesn't upset them so much."

            "Thank you," she struggled to order the words properly in her head, "for the money."

            She stood up, swayed a little, and took a few steps forward. The Patrician helped her up the stairs to the room he'd chosen for her on the same floor as his own. Isabella spilled into bed, shoes and all, and tucked her iconograph under her cheek.

            "We have to discard the past," she mumbled.   

            The Patrician pulled off her shoes. The past should stay in the past, he believed that. It just wasn't cooperating at the moment. It was about to confront him with poetry, for one thing.

            "…and, as one builds / floor by floor, window by window, / and the building rises / so do we go on throwing down / first, broken tiles / then pompous doors, / until out of the past / dust rises…"

            Lord Vetinari sat beside her.

            "Miss Capelli, how long is the Cut?"

            "…It is difficult/ to teach bones to disappear / to teach eyes / to close / but / we do it / unrealizing…"

            Isabella buried her face in her arm. The Patrician put a hand on her back.

            "What is the area of the Rimward Tower in Ephebian _heckels_?"

            "…It was all alive / alive, alive, alive…"

            "Which is less brittle: wrought iron or cast iron?" 

            "…like a scarlet fish / but time / passed over its dark cloth / and the flash of the fish / drowned and disappeared."

            The Patrician decided on a new course of action.

            "This won't do," he said sternly. "Tomorrow morning you will be awakened at 6 a.m. You will be thoroughly cleaned and all evidence of the distillery you drank tonight will be scrubbed away. At 7 you will have a breakfast of black coffee while we discuss a task I have for you."

            Isabella rolled over and tried to focus on him. He was looking a bit watery and everything around him had a golden haze that was fading into something that was going to be very, very unpleasant for her in the morning. 

            "1,876 feet," she said wearily. "13,981 square _heckels_. Wrought iron."

            The Patrician nodded and tucked her in.

            "Sleep," he ordered.


	11. Enchanted

** The update frenzy continues…(*smile*) Glad you're all enjoying the story. Some exciting bits coming up!**

11. Enchanted

            He made good on his promise. 

            Isabella was hauled out of bed around dawn by two brawny female servants and dropped directly into a hot bath. They washed her hair, they scrubbed her skin, they even brushed her teeth. They dried her off and dressed her. They pinned up her hair while she retched into a porcelain bowl. Twice. They brushed her teeth again. All of Lord Vetinari's servants were thorough and efficient.

            At breakfast she sat across from him, emptying cup after cup of black coffee, switching now and then to orange juice. There was no food. 

            The Patrician wasn't looking his usual grim self. He was looking grimmer. If he'd slept the night before, it didn't look it. It was always impossible to tell by his clothes, since he wore the same thing every day, but the bags under his eyes were darker, the lines around them deeper, the ashy shade of his frown ashier than they were last night. 

            "Who was it?" asked Isabella. 

            "Billy Gabbershins, five-year-old nephew of a landlady on Market Street. Eulalie Bucket, eight years old, grand daughter of the cheese mogul Seldom Bucket. Tenacity Lode, 12 years old, member of a very large, very angry family of armed dwarfs." 

            The Patrician spoke with the calm and softness of someone who will pull the trigger as soon as he knows where the target is. The reports had come in one at a time, once an hour. By dawn he'd already been to one of the murder scenes. The boarding house on Market Street. The landlady Mrs. Blunt was inconsolable. The daughter said her mum had woke up with what she called "a p'culiar feeling," went in to check on little Billy and there he was. The vampire Pefka tried to pick up the murderer's scent from the second crime scene at the Bucket residence but he was pelted with cutlery and curses the moment he showed his face.

            Isabella stared into her coffee and had the feeling she'd be sick again. 

            "Why children?"

            "Why indeed." 

            The Patrician did something he rarely did, which was run his hands through his hair. He'd heard quite a few members of the Lode family had started tearing theirs out when they found their child. 

            He emptied his coffee cup and stood up.

            "I have a small task for you. Please check the structural integrity of the Pon's Bridge."

            "Why?"

            "I will not have you haunting the halls of the Palace all day sighing and spouting poetry. It would upset the servants."

            She pinched the space between her eyes but the scalding head ache didn't go away.

            "Havelock, I'm not really feeling up to--"

            He was already at the dining room door, speaking over his shoulder. "I would like to see the drawings this afternoon. A carriage is waiting."

**

            It had been a trying night for the wizards and the day was looking only slightly worse.

            For one thing, nobody had gotten any sleep. Nobody except the students and non-wizard servants. Anyone with a shred of training and a sensitivity to the presence of high levels of octarine could feel the package, no matter where at the university he was. Wizards tossed in their beds, paced in their rooms, descended on the pantry for snacks at midnight, two, four, and then, what the hell, they stayed in the dining room with a pot of coffee and  yesterday's scones, waiting for breakfast to be served.

            The senior faculty had to take their snacks in one of the most remote rooms in the massive university cellars. It had walls and floors of granite sealed with a series of complicated spells. A long wooden table was at the back wall. The room wasn't meant for storage. Only the most delicate magical experiments were performed there.

            It took Ridcully an hour to carry the package step by step to the cellar room without letting it slip from the tongs. There were a couple of close calls along the way but he succeeded in setting the package on the wooden table. It took another hour to take the brown packaging paper off the box, again using the tongs. Then the Senior Wrangler ran off to get his tool kit, and in the cellar hall the wizards performed some protective spells over the pliers before using them to slowly work open the straps of the box. 

            A strategy meeting followed, along with some tea and some delightful little butter cookies. 

            It was decided that the lid would stay on until a couple of thaumometers and a few more pairs of over sized tongs could be found. This took longer than planned. The Chair of Indefinite Studies was sent to a well-known hardware store to get the tongs. When he returned with several Handy Dwarf brand tongs with the price tags hanging off, he wouldn't tell anyone how he got them out of a closed and locked store in the middle of the night.

            Around dawn, they opened the box.

            Wizards with tongs at either side of the table lifted the gown. Another wizard with tongs removed the box. The gown was carefully draped across the table. 

            The Dean whistled.

            Ponder gaped at the thaumometer in his hand. The readings he was getting were off the scales.

            Throughout the morning they performed a series of observations and experiments on the gown involving complicated snipping of gold and blue threads using magic sewing scissors and subjecting them to some exploratory spells. The Senior Wrangler sketched the golden dragon and the symbols embroidered on the silk and gave them to the Librarian for research among the university's magical books. It was all a very slow, stressful process. The senior faculty were rarely an efficient research body, and it was even harder to work when the hairs on their beards felt like someone was trying to extract them one by one with a pair of tweezers.

            The Lecturer in Recent Runes had been assigned the task of searching the inside of what they'd begun to call the Dragon Gown for a label of some kind. He wore gloves magicked for the purpose. You couldn't be too careful. After a half hour of painstaking, hesitant attempts to unbutton and unfold and generally manipulate the fabric in search of something, he thought he saw a white shadow on an inside hem. He reached a little deeper.

            The sleeve of his wizardly robe flopped up by accident…

            And his bare wrist came in contact with the fabric.

            It was like cool water on a summer day. It was like the softest skin he'd ever felt, which said something for the antics the Lecturer in Recent Runes had got up to as a student. He let the fabric of the gown slide up his wrist, up his arm, and he caught himself wishing it could go further. Wouldn't it be nice to pull the gown over his head, to feel the silk completely from head to toe, to admire it in a mirror…

             "Runes!"

            He yanked his arm out of the fabric. The Archchancellor glared at him.

            "What were you doing?"

            "I was just… I was…" The other wizards stared at him. "Maybe you should touch the fabric, Archchancellor."

            "That would be an extremely dangerous thing to do."

            "There's something strange about it."

            Ridcully registered the look on the face of the Lecturer in Recent Runes. It was flushed with a sort of happy and terrified confusion.

            Reluctantly, he took off his own gloves and reached out for the gown.

**

            "Disgraceful! My grandmother could have built a better bridge than that! Look at this."

            Isabella pointed at the sketches she'd made of the Pon's Bridge. Lord Vetinari deduced from the lines and echses and circles slashed in red across the strongest horizontal lines that the problem lay in the weight-bearing beams.

            "Ask me what that's made of," said Isabella.

            "What is that made of?"

            "Oak edged with iron! The most crucial part of the entire bridge is made of wood! The stone on the outside is just a facade and…" Isabella shook her head angrily, "…I could not believe my eyes. This is not the Century of the Fruitbat anymore. You can't build a bridge out of wood in Ankh-Morpork and then cover it with stone and hope it holds. It's not even good oak. I bet there were whole colonies of squirrels living in there before the tree was cut. The iron isn't much better. And look at this."

            She scrabbled among the papers on the desk Vetinari had set up for her in a small office on the widdershins side of the hallway on the same floor as the Oblong Office. 

            "The clerks found this for me." She brandished a slip of paper. "An invoice from the building company. You paid for steel beams. _Steel_, Havelock." She jabbed the invoice at the proper place. 

            The Patrician rubbed his beard. "That is curious."

            "Not at all. Swindlers. I really think we should…" Isabella paused. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

            "What was the total cost from the builders?" 

            Isabella consulted the invoice. "Twenty thousand."

            "That's extremely interesting. The Palace was rather short on money at the time. I recall paying something resembling ten thousand."

            There was silence. Isabella looked again at her sketches and the invoice.

            "If I remember correctly," said the Patrician, "that was actual cost, ten thousand. For wooden beams."

             "A false invoice?"

            "It looks authentic to me. Signatures, a date, an impressive looking stamp." The Patrician looked at it closely. "Yes, everything seems in order."

            "You didn't pay for steel beams."

            "Wood."

            Isabella folded her arms. "I should probably ask what kind of _in-sewer-ants_ you have on the bridge."

            "Ah, _that's_ an interesting question. Very en pointe. Let me see." He scratched his beard again. "Something along the lines of forty thousand."

            "No. Don't tell me you…" She looked at the invoice again. "You allowed a cheap bridge to be built, doubled the price on the invoice and doubled it again for the _in-sewer-ants_. Do you _want_ the bridge to fall?"

            The Patrician gazed at the silver top of his stick.

            "There are shops on it, Havelock! People do business there!"

            "What _kind_ of shops are on the Pon's Bridge?"

            "I saw a couple costume shops, a place that sold theater paint, there was a workshop for constructing stage props, an engraver that printed what looked like programs for the Dysk…" 

            The Patrician was nodding. His irritation at street entertainment and, by extension, theater in general was a carefully cultivated character trait. People expected him to be irrational in something. He was only human, after all. 

             "This is not amusing at all," said Isabella. "If the bridge collapses, people could get hurt."

            "Not people. _Theater_ people. Who from my observation have incredibly hard heads. They'll bounce on the Ankh a few times and be fit in time for curtain call. They'll probably write an exciting play about the whole dramatic experience. And the Palace will deposit money that will fund a new and stronger bridge." He spread his hands like he was the giver of nature's bounty. "Everyone will be happy." 

            "There's really no hope for you."

            Vetinari put on an innocent face, or at least tried. He couldn't do it very well.

            "What did you send me to look at it for, then?" said Isabella. "You want to know how much longer you have to wait before this bit of theatrical genocide happens?"

            He raised an eyebrow.

            "By the end of the year," she said, rolling up her sketches. "And I hope I won't be here to see it. It's completely irresponsible of you."

            "Your husband never does such things?"

            "Of course, but only after I argue. It's a disgrace that you've got away with it without anyone appealing to your conscience."

            "Pardon, my _what_?"

            Isabella bit the inside of her cheek and began tidying up the work table. She looked much fresher than she had that morning. The shadows had left her eyes, her cheeks weren't so ashen, the general lethargy she'd had about her was replaced by what looked to Lord Vetinari like nervous energy. At least the cognac had made her sleep. It was obvious to him she hadn't slept at all the previous couple of nights.

            She'd made other fast sketches while she was out. The Patrician browsed through them. Buildings that looked a strong breeze from falling over, rough stone streets that routinely snapped carriage axles, a cracked part of the embankment along the canal. Snapshots of the city, details that most people didn't see anymore because they were simply there, a part of it all. Invisible. She saw them. 

            That was the mind that had impressed him all those years ago. Talent that had ripened beautifully over the years. Somehow.

            "I am delighted to see you're feeling better," he said.

            "It was a nice distraction, yes." Isabella leaned against the drafting table. "For about five minutes I forgot that I'm dead. For thirty seconds I forgot that two of the children who died last night were the same age as our children." She chose not to correct the possessive. "If I get my hands on that vampire I'll nail her to the Deosil Gate myself."

**

            Actually, there already was a vampire nailed to the Deosil Gate.

            He'd obviously been hanging there for some time. When the Watch got the report and hot footed it up there, Gunther Brech was covered in rotten tomatoes, lettuce, graffiti, chunks of the Ankh and an unidentifiable brown and slimy substance that was not the Ankh. The crowd had at least let him keep his sun glasses.

            He tried to give Vimes a little wave. It was difficult because the sleeves of his evening jacket were nailed to the gate.

            "Haul him down," growled Vimes. 

            Captain Carrot did the honours while a gathering crowd of the regular merchants, loafers and general busy bodies got up a chant that involved an inordinate number of boo's. Somebody threw a turnip. Vimes spun on the crowd.

            "Who did that? Own up!"

            The people had their hands behind their backs and were looking innocently at the cloudless summer sky.

            "Right. The next vegetable that gets thrown will be considered a deadly weapon and the throwee's backside will feel the business end of my boot." Vimes looked down at his footwear. "Sandal. Clear?"

            The crowd mumbled.

            Gunther Brech examined his jacket cuffs. There was no saving them.

            "You all right, sir?" asked Vimes.

            "BLOODSUCKER!" someone shouted.

            Vimes turned on the crowd again. He had the kind of glare that seemed to personally pick out each and every person, even in a crowd of fifty. 

            "I've tried to tell zem I don't do zat sort of zing anymore," said Brech.

            "Who did this to you?"

            "I vas valking down ze street minding my own business vhen a few ruffians brought me here. I had done nozing to provoke zem."

            "MURDERER!" The chant was picked up and the crowd started to squeeze in. Watchmen made a protective line in front of Brech. 

            Captain Carrot held up a hand.

            "I'm sure you all know it's wrong to blame an entire species for the wrongdoing of one member."

            The crowd was silent. 

            "If a human murders someone, you can't go around nailing all the humans up on the gate, can you?"

            A man in blue overalls raised his hand. "I can."

            "No you can't, Mr. Looper. Then you'd have to nail yourself up. After you had one arm up, how could you do the other one?"

            The crowd considered this. Heads were scratched. Noses were thoughtfully picked. It was Problem Solving for Mobs.

            "Maybe if you was barefoot and had the hammer between your…"

            "Nah, you give the hammer to your buddy, he's a troll, see, and then…"

            A watchman burst through the crowd and slid to a stop in front of Vimes.

            "Sah! Fighting down on Short and God." The watchman took a breath. "Six wounded when I left."

            "Who's down there?"

            "Sergeant Detritus. He told 'em to stop but they kept swinging with engraved plates. The vampires are getting ticked. One of 'em…"

            "All right." Vimes waved at a few of his men. "Escort this gentleman home. The rest, come with me!"

**

            At the request of the senior faculty, Isabella dropped by Unseen University later in the afternoon. She was ushered into what looked like an abandoned classroom. Dust coated the desks. The wizards trooped in not long afterward looking like they'd spent all day with their fingers in a light socket. They collapsed onto the desks, coffee mugs in hand.

            "We have a few questions for you, Miss Capelli," said the Archchancellor.

            Ponder couldn't contain himself. "It's amazing! The threads are of no fiber known on the Disc! Pure octarine seeps out of the--"           

            "Stibbons!" Ridcully bent a stern eye on the young wizard. "You will let more level heads handle this." He cleared his throat. "Where, may I ask, did you get the Dragon Gown, Miss Capelli?"

            "It was a gift."

            "You don't know where it was created?"

            Isabella caught Ridcully's choice of word. Created. Dresses were usually made or sewed or something, weren't they?

            "I don't know where it's originally from. I assumed it was imported from Agatea."

            "You _wore_ it?" said Ponder, enthusiasm exploding again from his desk. "You really wore it?"

            "Stibbons!"

            "Yes, I wore it, the same night I got it. It's the most beautiful gown I've ever seen." Isabella appealed to Ridcully. "What's happening, Archchancellor? Please tell me what you found."

            "We can't tell you much yet," he said gravely. "The textile handlers said they've never seen anything like what the gown's made of."

            "One of them tried to cut off a thread with normal scissors and it took us a half hour to wake him up afterward," said the Dean. "He said he dreamed about mountains when he was knocked out." 

            "There's something else," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. He looked nervously at his fellows.

            The wizards focused their gazes on various points of the dusty classroom rather than fix the others with the kind of stare that said: _I know what you think about when you touch that gown. You wish it was a size 67 with extra room at the stomach. You want to wear it. You want to know what it's like to have that silk on your skin. You want to look in a mirror…_

            After the Lecturer in Recent Runes and the Archchancellor survived touching the gown with their bare hands, the other wizards had tried, with similar results. Afterward, they kept their gloves on.

            Ponder cleared his throat. "The gown seems to…want to be worn."

            Isabella stared at him.

            "It has a certain attraction, yes," said the Dean. "We are, of course, wizards normally content with our robes of office but the gown has this tempting way about it."

            "It's a tease," the Chair agreed.

            The Archancellor held up a hand. "We're hoping for some more information from the library, Miss Capelli. What we do know is…" he rubbed the shock of white hair standing straight up on his head like a crescent moon-shaped mohawk. "…that gown of yours is powerful. I don't mean a little spell to make wine out of water powerful. I don't even mean wizard staff powerful."

            Isabella stared around at the wizards. "You're saying I have some kind of an enchanted gown."

            The wizards looked at each other again. 

            "Or…?" 

            "Maybe it would help if you told us who gave you this gift," said Ridcully.

            "My husband, of course. Or rather, my husband's clerk delivered it to me on his behalf. No one else could get away with giving me something that expensive."

            Ridcully took a deep breath and let it out slowly like a bellows.

            "The gown isn't expensive, Madam. It's priceless. It might be the only one of its kind in the universe."

            "We hope," said Ponder.


	12. Binding a Tie

12. Binding a Tie

            Night descended on a city too frightened, paranoid and furious to sleep. Candles were kept lit where they were usually too precious to be used except on special occasions. Bands of burly citizens with big sticks patrolled their neighbourhoods in shifts. Any pale, black-clad people foolish enough to be out were harassed until they showed their teeth. Several undertakers had a few teeth knocked out even after they showed them.

            The Watch was patrolling too, though Vimes didn't really know what they should be looking for. A lady vampire with long, black hair wasn't that much to go on. The vampire Pefka was prowling the streets hoping to randomly pick up the scent of the murderer.

            At the Palace, Isabella leaned out her bedroom window and breathed in the relatively fresh evening air. She was thinking about children. The ones who were murdered, their faces filled in by the children on her iconograph. What bothered her the most about her tomb at the Temple of Blind Io was that it officially contained a version of her who had never had the chance to have children. Octavia, Antonia and Marco were a constant presence in her mind, their voices echoing there and in the hallways of the Palace, especially right around their bedtime. But a tiny doubt surfaced: Had they ever existed? Were her children product of a dream like the Dali Pooka said? But it was impossible. They existed; she knew it in her heart, not just because of the iconograph. She wondered again who was watching after them, where they thought their mother was, what Havelock was telling them…

            A half hour ago he'd told her in no uncertain terms not to unlock her bedroom window. "Do not open it," he'd said gravely, "under any circumstances." But after he left her alone with only a few candles lit in the bedroom, a whiff of the tomb returned to her and she couldn't bare it, not one more moment locked inside a dark space alone.

            She breathed in the night air.

            How thin he was. He had no family to eat with, no reason to eat at all except for the necessity of it, a bare minimum to keep going. She saw it in the hollows of his face and the looseness of his robe. His limp was exagerrated but it was real, which meant he'd had no one to massage strength and flexibility back to the leg tendon damaged by the gonne shot, a task she would have done if she hadn't been injured herself. (The family Igor had done it). The lines around his eyes were different. Something about the depth and shape that seemed to show that he hadn't had as many opportunities to smile or laugh. Until the last couple of years, the children had given him many chances to do it. 

            He'd been good to her despite the strangeness of the situation, and for that she was grateful. His help and support were priceless in most cases, political or otherwise. What amazed her was that he treated her – an old friend, obviously, but a stranger when fifteen years and death were counted – _better_ than her husband had been treating her lately. All of the personal attention she was getting; she'd almost forgotten what it was like. To talk alone with him about something other than work. To be in a carriage with him. To have her hand held, even for a few moments. 

            "His first years were all silence / His adolescence authority / His youth an aimed wind..." she said aloud.

            She was aware that he was tired of poetry. He knew she felt better sometimes if she said the verses aloud but her husband always preferred her with both feet on the ground. Firm. Practical. Discly. 

            "…He made himself menace, like a sombre god / He ate from each fire of his people / he learned the alphabet of the lightning…"

            She hadn't told him a poem in a long time. _Him_…the other him. 

            "…He wrapped his heart in black skins…"      

            He used to listen, or looked like he had. He'd cared enough at least to do that.

            "He became glass of transparent hardness / He studied to be a hurricane wind / He fought himself until his blood was extinguished."

            She stopped. She couldn't say the last line because it was about the leader being worthy of his people only after erasing himself, and she felt somehow that speaking it condoned it. 

            She'd done that long enough already.

            "Zat vas beautiful." 

            The voice was soft and floated down from the darkness of a copse on the outer wall above Isabella's head. She peered up but couldn't see anything. 

            "Are you a vampire?"

            "Oh, yes. Does zat bozer you?"

            "It depends."

            There was a rustle and a sheet of silky black hair, then a pale, smiling face came into view. Upside down. The eyes sparkled.

            "I am Klieg. May I call you Isabella?"

            Isabella tried not to show how startled she was. "Of course."

            "Oh good. I hope ve can be friends."

            Klieg dropped to the sill and sat, her legs dangling. Behind her, Isabella hooked a foot around her night stand and began dragging it incrementally closer to her. Dibbler's stake sat on top. It rolled a little.

            "How do you know my name?" she asked.

            "How could I not know it? You are a very special voman."

            "In what way?"

            Klieg breathed in deeply and let the breath out. "You have a vonderful scent. It is like a symphony." She leaned closer. Isabella leaned back. "Did you know zat?"

            "No one has ever told me that, no."

            "Most people are barbarians, Isabella. Zey do not observe ze complexities of ze vorld around zem. Ze senses show us everyzing. But people, zey are self-consumed, zey look only at zemselves and miss ze beauty in ozers."

            "Are all vampires so romantic?"

            Klieg laughed. Her incisors looked sharp enough to puncture iron. "I am particularly romantic. Ozers call it a fault. I zink not. You are a poet. You must be a romantic also."

            "I'm an architect."

            "Do not be ashamed of romance! It is so stimulating. For instance, I am very often in love. Every night viz somevone new."

            "Do you fall out of love with the person from yesterday?"

            "I carry zat love into ze next. It builds." Klieg smiled at Isabella again. "Tonight I am in love viz you."   

            The night stand was at Isabella's hip. The wooden stake rolled again. Isabella silently prayed it wouldn't fall on the floor.

            "You've only just met me," she said.

            "But I have seen your sadness and it has moved me. Vhy are you sad?"

            Isabella was too busy trying to surreptitiously reach the stake to answer.

            "Oh, my dear…" Klieg put a hand on Isabella's. "You may cry if you vant. I do not zink tears are a sign of veakness, unlike some ozers in zis vorld."

            "I don't want to cry." Isabella moved her hand out from under Klieg's. "What do you want with me?"

            Klieg gazed at her then with diamond eyes, unsmiling, but with a look of such adoration on her face that Isabella took another one-handed swipe at the stake behind her. The shaft rolled out from under her fingers.

            "First I vould like to ask if you know you are sleeping in ze same bedroom zat Qveen Palla ze Dense used to store her magnitized knitting needles. I read it in ze 'Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork.'"

            "I did know that, actually."

            "Ah. Zen I vould also like to ask if I may kiss you."

            Isabella reached for the stake again but it slipped.

            Klieg gave her a reassuring smile, which back fired because of the fangs. "I did not mean ze Vampire Kiss. A normal kiss. A lover's kiss."

            "I don't want a lover."

            "You have vone already? Zis Vetinari?" Klieg spat the name.

            "No."

            The vampire leaned closer. "I vill tell you vhy he is not a good lover. He is like zis…" she held up a tightly clenched fist, "…and believes it to be strength vhen it is only fear."

            "How do you know?"

            "I know. He fears ze vorld and so tries to control it. He fears himself and so tries to control himself. He is a ridiculous creature, vizout joy."

            "He's my husband."

            Klieg stared at Isabella as if offended. "He has no vife and deserves none. He tries to order ze vorld vhen chaos is far more beautiful."

            "That may be, but he's still my husband."

            "Do you love him?" 

            Isabella didn't answer but the expression on her face seemed to do it for her.

            "Zat is vhy you are sad," said Klieg. "You have passion for ze passionless. I should pity you but I am too jealous. If he vas here I vould kill him."

             Isabella's hand finally closed around the stake.

            "I ask you not to," she said.

            Klieg's eyes narrowed. "I have been asked zat before. It irritates me enough to do ze opposite."

            "Please," said Isabella, "as a favour to me."

            "May I kiss you? If I promise not to kill him?"

            Isabella held the stake at her side, point down, the wood rough under her palms.

            "Only a regular kiss. And you must tell me your real name first. No female vampire was ever named Klieg."

            Klieg smiled slyly. "If I tell you some ozer name, how vill you know it is real?"

            "Names have power. Calling me by my first name shows our friendship. If I call you Klieg, I can't befriend you. I don't have the vocabulary."

            There were a few moments in which Klieg examined Isabella's face, dissecting it bit by bit. Then she smiled.

            "My name is Lavinia Alexandra Radivitska Colonia in ze short form," she said. 

            "May I call you Lavinia?"

            "Please." Klieg leaned closer. "And now…"

            Isabella held up a hand. "You must also promise not to kill the Patrician. And hold to it."

            "I never hold to my promises."

            "Then I'm afraid we have no deal, Lavinia."

            Klieg showed her teeth. "I told you my name."

            "I told you my conditions." 

            "I can not hold to it. I do not know Vetinari but I hate him."

            "Why?"

            "I have heard too much about him." Klieg's gaze softened suddenly. "You are an orchestra, Isabella. Shall I kiss you tonight or tomorrow night?"

            "Without the promise, never."

            "Tomorrow. Ze anticipation is so delicious. I imagine you taste like ze Circle Sea at twilight off ze coast of Ephebe vhere ze hibiscus grow."

            "I'm afraid I've never been there."

            "Fairvell! Until tomorrow." Klieg snatched up Isabella's hand to kiss it before launching herself into the air. 

            Isabella watched until she was out of sight. A small dark shadow passed silently overhead and followed Klieg over the rooftops. A moment of silence, a long exhalation of breath, and Isabella leaned a bit further out the window.

            "By any chance was my dear husband eavesdropping?"

            Lord Vetinari materialized out of the shadow of the window sill next door, hopped over to Isabella's and sat where Klieg had.

            "I am always amazed at the power of the words 'Do not open.' The outcome is always predictable."

            "Since she was here, I thought it would be useful to know her name." 

            He gave Isabella a severe look. "It was too high a risk."

            "Was that a raven I saw following?"

            He nodded. 

            "Do you think she killed all those people?" 

            "Possibly. She does appear to be a tourist."

            The wind stirred the gray-black fabric of Vetinari's clothing and rustled Isabella's hair. 

            "Do you think Margolotta sent her?" she asked.

            "It is possible."

            "You're very talkative tonight."

            The Patrician eased himself into Isabella's bedroom and locked the window.

            "If you don't keep this locked, I will have it nailed shut."

            He closed the curtains.

            "Why were you keeping guard with a raven outside my window?" 

            "Try to sleep." 

            "Havelock."

            He nodded at the wooden stake Isabella still clutched tightly in her hand. "You are not the only one who is cautious. Good night."

            He left to call a clerk. It wasn't too late to find someone who could send a clacks.

**

            The next morning, it disturbed Vimes that there was no report of death by vampire for the previous night. Disturbed was the wrong word. He was relieved, but he couldn't speculate that the series of murders was over. It was his gut talking.

            He did a last, careful scrape of his razor down his neck, paused to look at the major vein there, thankfully unpunctured, and wiped his face with a warm towel. He hefted his breastplate and tramped down to breakfast. 

            The books he'd been looking at the night before had been carefully set at one end of the large dining room table by one of the servants. Vimes stopped to pick the top one up and settled at his place. Willikins appeared, lifted the silver lid from the dish with a flourish, and set it in front of Vimes. There was the aroma of fried things. The eggs were just identifiable by the spots of white here and there, but the bacon was almost completely covered by a healthy coat of carbon. He bit into it with satisfaction and opened his book again.

            The Ramkins were an old family and had an old library that included some curious volumes. One was a register of the noble families of Uberwald, the _Atlas de Gothik_,  and that contained, without exception, every name on the list Pefka had supplied him. Top of the list, interestingly enough, was Lady Margolotta. Who smoked Black Scopani. She had fifty pages in the book. Vimes had read with interest how she was born into a family of nobles known for its intellectual bent, her work in younger days to categorize the flora and fauna of Uberwald, and when the interest in natural science faded, she moved to history, writing several volumes on the various species in the country. She then turned to poetry, rather less successfully, according to the book, and then to painting with somewhat more success, and then philosophy. She had exchanged letters with some of the great minds of the day two centuries ago. She then found an interest in languages and geography and then diplomacy. The last entry in the book, thirty years old, commented that she appeared to be moving in the direction of politics.

            And she did, thought Vimes as he crunched his egg. Lady Margolotta's life could be looked at from two perspectives: As a 500-year search for intellectual advancement or a massive, eternal effort to avoid boredom. Probably both. He wouldn't know what to do with himself if he had all that time. Vimes was a man who felt alive only when someone was trying to kill him. He assumed a creature that couldn't die of natural causes and avoided the stick-shaking mobs rarely felt alive.

            Of course, the vampires in Ankh-Morpork were feeling _very_ lively these days. There were a few unsubstantiated reports of Black Ribboners fighting back. Nothing fatal but it was a bad trend. Vimes remembered what Pefka had said about what could happen if a teetotaler spilled blood in anger.

            "Still at your studies?" 

            Sybil tramped in wearing her dragon boots, great galoshes that she normally left at the garden gate. Vimes accepted her kiss and waved a fork at the book.

            "It must be a curse to live forever," he said. "After a couple hundred years this would all get old."

            "I don't think that's the problem. I'd hate to see everything die. Everything and everyone I cared about. I've always felt sorry for vampires."

            Vimes gave her a look.

            "Accept for the ones who kill people, of course. You have to wonder about their respect for life."

            "I reckon some lives are worth more than others." Vimes closed the book and shoved the last of his bacon in his mouth. He crunched it thoughtfully. 

            "Do you really think Lady Margolotta has something to do with the murders?" asked Sybil. "By what you said, she sounds more intelligent than that. And she saved your life."

            When Vimes was in danger of ending his life as a puddle at the bottom of a ravine in Uberwald, Margolotta had helped him escape. This was a plus for her in Sybil's book.

            "I wouldn't give her a humanitarian award, Sybil. She saved my life because it was useful to her."

            "Why would she come here and start killing people?"

            Vimes hadn't thought that plausible either. Not the woman he'd met. Margolotta had showed the elegance of vampires and satirized it at the same time with her clothing covered in bats and the thickening of her accent when she chose. She was too sophisticated to simply fly into Ankh-Morpork and start a feast. And she was a Black Ribboner. At least, that's what she'd said.  

            And she'd known the Patrician. Rumour in the city was that they still knew each other, though the gossips couldn't go far in explaining how a wink-wink relationship could function at long distance. 

            There were big pieces of the puzzle missing. His gut told him these weren't just murders. It wasn't just a vampire doing what vampires did. There had to be a reason. The pattern, three classes, three meals, the children also from different social backgrounds…but why? Was he dealing with a murderer who also had a sharp sense of social egalitarianism?

            "On another note," said Sybil, "it certainly feels different here without Isabella, doesn't it?"

            "I _knew_ they knew each other."

            True to form, the Patrician hadn't told him what had changed his opinion about Isabella. Two meetings and the lady moved in with him. Well, into the Palace, and that was something. Again, Vimes had a peculiar gut feeling about it all. Or maybe it was the eggs.

            "She's an interesting woman," said Sybil. "She drew a design for new dragon stables. She said it would be more efficient and improve the air flow."

            Vimes was thinking: the Patrician knew Isabella, the mysterious woman who appeared out of nowhere who was dead and not undead and very alive. And the Patrician knew Lady Margolotta, definitely undead. There was a vampire who came out of nowhere who carried around the same tobacco as Margolotta and could be her or not but who was definitely using the city as her personal feeding bowl. There was no connection in Vimes' mind between Isabella and the vampire or Isabella and Margolotta. But it dawned on him that there could be. The timing was…interesting. And the connection, at least on the surface, appeared to be Lord Vetinari.

            He shook himself. That kind of logic could link anything. All dogs have four paws. All cats have four paws. Therefore all cats are dogs…

            "I'm off, Sybil," he said, kissing her absently on the cheek. 

            He was eager to get to Pseudopolis Yard and find out if Pefka had picked up on the vampire's scent during the night.

            He had. Pefka had tracked Klieg's scent through the city, rooftop to rooftop, in the streets, on lamp posts, anywhere from which a person could perch and look down at the busyness of the Morporkians. His pursuit had been quiet and nearly invisible; in certain streets, vampires were now being attacked on sight. The faintness of the scent, though, told him how far behind he was, an hour from when he first crossed her path. And that was why he landed on the windowsill of Isabella's bedroom at the Palace long after Klieg had disappeared, Vetinari had gone off to send a clacks and Isabella had gone to bed only to lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

            He could have followed Klieg's scent from there but he didn't. He spent the rest of the night sitting on the windowsill, relaxed against the glass, his eyes closed. Breathing. He smelled a symphony.

            Only when dawn approached did he rush to Pseudopolis Yard to leave a message.

            This is what Vimes found when he reached work: _No luck, commander. Will try again tonight. –P_

            The other thing Vimes found at the Yard was a little old lady waiting in his office. She wore red and had a smiling, creased face and looked about 100. She walked with a cane but seemed otherwise fit.

            "There you are!" she said in a tone that implied she'd been waiting all day.

            "I'm sorry, Madam, but at the moment I'm not--"

            "Mrs. Figgers," she said. "Your butler asked me to come and see you."

            Vimes stopped trying to look important by fussing with the paperwork on his desk. He'd completely forgotten that he'd asked Willikins to quietly snoop around to see if any of Vetinari's old servants were discreet and talkative at the same time. He hadn't expected one to show up at the Yard. That was hardly the colour of discretion.

            He held out a chair for her. "Please have a seat, Mrs. Figgers."

            "Don't mind if I do, young man." She folded her hands on her cane and looked around his office with a disapproving eye. "You want to know about Master Havelock, eh?"

            The office door opened. Carrot stuck his head in.

            "Oh, sorry to disturb you, sir."

            Vimes waved him in. "Anything new?"

            "Scuffles during the night but nothing else." Vimes glanced through the papers Carrot gave him. 

            "Give me ten minutes," he said.

            When Carrot had gone, Vimes tried to shift his mind back to the cherry-coloured moon face in front of him.

            "I apologize that I don't have much time this morning," he said. He paused to call up his reserves of tact. What he wanted to ask was a delicate matter. "I would appreciate it if you could tell me anything significant you remember about Lord Vetinari and Isabella Capelli."

            A transformation came over her face. It turned a milky white. The great silver eyebrows over her eyes rose to an alarming height and her mouth formed itself into an o. 

            "Oh!" she cried. "I haven't heard that name in years!" The colour came back to her face. 

            "You remember her, then?"

            "Like it was yesterday. The peak of politeness, that girl. Always rushing around with her papers and her quills. Pick a day of the week and she was at the house, drawing and drawing for Master Havelock."

            "What did she draw?"

            "Buildings, I think. Bridges. I didn't look too closely." Mrs. Figgers frowned. "Not polite to look around the master's study. I brought up the tea."

            Vimes was having a mental crisis about the wording of questions again. Mrs. Figgers' cane looked rather painful, and she looked the sort to use it if she got offended.

            "Miss Capelli did…architectural drawings for Lord Vetinari. Nothing else?"

            Mrs. Figgers pursed her lips. She looked like a white-haired raisin.

            "What are you implying, young man?"

            "Well, I…"

            "If you are implying there was some kind of inappropriate relationship between them then I must advise you to choose another line of questioning." Her stick tapped the ground with an air of finality.

            There was something about Mrs. Figgers wearing red. Why that should matter was not clear in Vimes' mind but as far as he could figure out, that was what made him shut off the screaming, kicking censor in his mind and ask:

            "Were they in love?"

            Mrs. Figgers' cane left the ground. Vimes resisted the urge to duck. He didn't need to; she wrapped the cane in her arms tightly, hugging it like a particularly thin and elongated walnut cat. 

            "_That's_ different! Have you ever seen Master Havelock in a tie?"

            Vimes shook his head.

            "That's because he can't do it," she said. "He can't bind a tie to save his life. Mental block. Had it since he was a boy. When he ties it himself it looks like he did it in the dark with two left hands." Mrs. Figgers chuckled. "It didn't matter to him most of the time but when _she_ was coming to the house, he'd ring for me to do it up for him. It had to be just right for _her_."

            The mental image of Mrs. Figgers scolding a young Havelock Vetinari for fidgeting while she bound his tie was too much to resist. Vimes grinned.

            "You see?" said Mrs. Figgers. "And if that wasn't evidence enough…" Her face suddenly took on a sheen of sorrow. "Look what happened after the poor girl died."

            "What happened?"

            "Master Havelock went to the funeral."

            "I assume quite a few people went."

            "Not people as sick as he was. Sick as a dog, he was. The night before he was trembling with fever, poor lamb. He barely had the energy to stand up on his own two feet but he went to that girl's funeral anyway." Mrs. Figgers dabbed the corner of her eye with her shawl though it didn't look like there was any moisture. 

            "He collapsed when he came home. Didn't leave his bed for a week. That, young man, was nothing less than a broken heart."

**Aaaaawwww…Touching, eh? TBC*


	13. Miscalculation

** Just a short word for Tindomiel, Twist, Domino, Merrymoll and all the other ladies who get a bit weak-kneed about his lordship. You might want to get some tissues before you read this chapter.- (smile) - Elderberry, I haven't read MR yet. My take on vampires is pretty eclectic. To all the other reviewers, a big hearty thanks from me. ** 

13. Miscalculation

            There were important things to talk about at the Watch meeting, but Vimes couldn't help looking at Lord Vetinari in light of what Mrs. Figgers had said. It was all hard to believe when you were standing right in front of the man. Everything about him was unromantic. Vimes realized he was about the last person to judge what romantic was, but even he could see that the Patrician wasn't. Vetinari was all  pallor and planes and angles and sharp glances and thin-lipped smiles. He had the infuriating calm that made you want to punch him repeatedly or tell off-colour jokes just to see if he'd blush.

            Even if you stripped fifteen years away, he didn't look the type to fall apart about anything, even if it was the death of a girl he happened to love. Mrs. Figgers may have been wrong. Vimes could always test it. Ask Lord Vetinari to bind a tie.

            Vimes couldn't help himself. Maybe it was worry. Maybe it was fatigue.

            He smiled.

            The Patrician swung his glance away from Captain Carrot.

            "You find the latest number of injured vampires amusing, Vimes?"

            The smile disappeared.

            "No, sir."

            The stare the Patrician gave him lasted several seconds longer than was comfortable. 

            "Could you excuse us for a moment, captain?"

            When he and Vimes were alone, Lord Vetinari left his desk and gazed out the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

            "How is Mrs. Figgers these days?"

            One hour. The Patrician had found out and she'd left the Yard just one hour ago.

            "She's fine, sir."

            "Good. Good. She was my mother's servant. She always had my best interests at heart. Usually."

            Vimes didn't know what to say so he didn't say anything.

            "That was a painful chapter of my life, Sir Samuel. From beginning to end, when looked at in hindsight. Isabella Capelli was a brilliant talent and a lovely young woman. She was also, for all too brief a time, a close friend. Alas, not as close as I would have liked." 

            He paused.

            Vimes pawed the helmet in his hands.

            "Look, sir, if it's too--" 

            "Since you are unstoppably curious, I will tell you why she left for Pseudopolis on that tragic day. She chose to go and attend a prestigious school of architecture rather than give me her hand, despite the advantages marriage would have brought her and her family. It was a responsible decision; her talent required a certain kind of environment to reach its potential. I supported her wholeheartedly." Lord Vetinari took a breath and let it out slowly. "It is dangerous for a nobleman to acquire romantic ideals about marriage. But at the time, I was convinced that Isabella would help me greatly in my work and fulfil the natural craving for companionship that we all have." He turned from the window. "Even me."

            If Vetinari had been wearing dark glasses, Vimes wouldn't have seen anything different about his face. It wasn't flushed with emotion. There was no particular difference to the frown, to the arch of his brows. Everything was in the eyes, a change to the shape, a small difference that resulted in a look of quiet sadness. 

            "It hadn't occurred to me that she would refuse," said Vetinari as he walked slowly back to his desk. "I am not one given to miscalculations but I had not had many opportunities to walk the halls of love. I overestimated my own worth. I was a young man, handsome to some, wealthy, noble, intelligent, ambitious. It was safe to assume that any young lady of the middle class would jump at my proposal." 

            His fingers curled around the back of his chair. 

            "Instead of refusing me directly, she visited me one day excited about being accepted into the Pseudopolis school. I didn't try to influence her decision. I helped her prepare to leave, not knowing just how tragic that coach ride on an icy winter morning would be. After her death, I found it difficult to shake the thought that I should have told her--" He stared into space, silent for a moment. "You are aware, of course, that I am not a demonstrative man, Vimes. I never was. But if I had at least told her…what I should have…perhaps she would not have left. I deeply regretted my silence. Our worst mistakes, the ones we most regret, must be borne like stones chained behind us. We drag them through the years and can only hope the burden will become lighter." 

            He sat back at his desk.

            "Happily, time has an erosive effect on the past. The episode with Isabella was before all of this." He waved at the Oblong Office. "Over the years, I thought of her only during nostalgic moods that came, thankfully, ever more rarely. It is ironic that she has returned now when a decade ago," he smiled briefly, "I would have reacted quite differently to seeing her ill in your house. However, age and experience make us more prudent if we allow it. The issue of Isabella is now in my hands and I am doing my best to resolve it. I ask you to leave it to me."

            Vimes found himself agreeing without thinking. He felt like a right heel for talking to Mrs. Figgers in the first place. 

            "I'm sorry, sir."

            Lord Vetinari positioned a paper in front of him and lifted a quill.

            "So am I. But we must never let such things distract us from our duty."

**

            The Librarian waddled into the Archchancellor's office with an oversized, leather-bound book under one long, furry arm. Most of the senior faculty were already there shoving for space on the sofa, bickering over the armchairs or attempting to drape themselves gracefully on the window sills. Ponder Stibbons was absent. The Bursar, harmlessly insane on his good days, was busy sticking feathers from Ridcully's fishing lures in his ears. Though the slowly rotting swordfish on the wall over Ridcully's desk gave off the stink of old sushi dinners, the office had become the command center and gathering place for the wizards investigating the issue of Isabella and her gown.

            Ridcully sat squarely in his chair, his fists on the desk.

            "Now that the Librarian is here, we can get started," he said. "I assume Mister Stibbons will be along. Any progress, Runes?"

            "The designs on the gown aren't in any of our books of magic symbols," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "If they are magical, I have no idea what they mean."

            "They do look nice though, don't they?" said the Senior Wrangler.

            A few wizards nodded.

            "Um, Archchancellor?" said the Chair of Indefinite Studies.

            "One moment, Chair. Any response from those clacks messages you sent out, Dean?"

            "Not one said they'd ever heard of a gown like it," said the Dean. "I even got a message out to a couple of expats from Agatea and they said dragon gowns were common there but nothing like I described."

            The Bursar, red and yellow feathers sticking out of his ears, struck a pose in front of the window and sang, "I feel pretty…o so pretty…I feel pretty and witty and briiiiiight. And I pity, any girl who isn't me tonight…" 

            "Thank you, Bursar," said Ridcully.

            "Archchancellor?" 

            "Wait your turn, Chair! I'm going around the room in a logical fashion according to your sitting order, isn't that obvious?" Ridcully rolled his eyes and nodded at the Senior Wrangler. "What have you got?"

            "Well, the Librarian and I think we've found a precedent for Miss Capelli's situation." He waved at the Librarian, who deposited the book in front of Ridcully and opened it to a marked page.

            "Ook," he said. "Ook ook…ook." He turned to look at the Senior Wrangler, who nodded with encouragement. "Ook ook ook, ook?"

            "Yes, that is interesting," said Ridcully. He finished skimming the page. The Dean wandered over for a look.

            "What's it say, Mustrum?"

            "Says here that 700 years ago an Ephebian returned from the dead, in this case fifty years after the fact, with memories of those years intact."

            The Bursar pranced to the middle of the room, swinging his robe, then bobbed back to the window, still singing. "See that pretty girl in that mirror, there?" He pointed coquettishly at the window. "Who could that attractive girl be?"

            "Bursar," said Ridcully, frowning. 

            "Such a pretty face…"

            "Bursar."

            "Such a pretty dress…"

            "Bursar!"

            "Such a pretty smile…"

            "BURSAR!"

            "Such a pretty faaaaace!" The Bursar let his extended tenor tone die out, then spun away, waving his arms happily. At a nod from Ridcully, the Dean removed a bottle of Dried Frog Pills from his robe, told the Bursar to open his mouth, close his eyes and get ready for a big surprise. The Bursar obeyed. He swallowed the pills, and gave the Dean a good-natured grin.

            Ridcully nodded. "All right, then, gentlemen. We were talking about an Ephebian bloke who didn't have the sense to stay dead and who remembered things he shouldn't have. Is there more, Senior Wrangler?"    

            "No one knew how it happened. The man apparently lived a normal life. Normal under the circumstances. He died at a regular age. It was the only precedent we've found so far."

            The Chair of Indefinite Studies raised his hand. "Archchanchellor?"

            "All right, Chair. It's your turn. This better be good."

            "It moved."

            There was silence in the office. The wizards mentally interpreted the meaning of those two simple words and none of them came up satisfied.

            "I don't think we're following," said the Dean. "Are you following?" he asked the group. Besides the Bursar, who nodded, the wizards shook their heads.

            "I mean," said the Chair, his hands pressed nervously between his knees, "that the dragon on the back of the gown kind of…" he hesitated.

            "What?" 

            "It changed direction."

            The Chair had been assigned to keep an eye on the gown, to check in on it now and then to make sure no wandering student found his way into the cellars and did a fool thing like put it on. 

            "It was facing to the left," he said, "and then later it was facing to the right. And then it faced left again."

            "Are you sure?"

            "I called Stibbons to go and look. He must be down there now."

            "Why would the dragon do that?" asked the Senior Wrangler.

            "Maybe it wanted an alternative view." 

            "Don't be ridiculous, Runes. All of the cellar walls look the same."

            "But the dragon wouldn't know that until it changed views, would it?"

            "Bibble," said the Bursar calmly. The pills were having the desired effect.

            "And there's something else," said the Chair. "There's something about the colour. That bluish shimmer it has gets worse in the dark, or at least when I put a candle near the fabric."

            "You put a candle near the gown?" said the Dean in an accusing tone.

            "It was an experiment. When I held up the candle, the colours on the gown seemed to get kind of…reflective. Like the whole thing was made of glass. It shined right back at me."

            The wizards paused at the sound of loud flapping of shoes on the floor of the hallway outside, the scraping sound of someone sliding to a stop on the other side of the door, and an audible gasp for air. Ponder burst into the room.

            "It moved!" he gasped.

            "We've established that, Mister Stibbons," said Ridcully. "Which way is the dragon facing now?"

            Ponder swallowed and clutched his chest. He wasn't much of a runner and the cellars were a long way down.

            "The dragon design was facing left and then it suddenly shimmered and when I blinked, it was facing right."

            "What do you think it means?"

            "I have no idea, sir." Ponder slumped into the chair the Librarian vacated for him. "I haven't had much luck on the STUMs issue either. If Miss Capelli had been in or near a library when she changed dimensions, that would make sense. But a garden…" he shook his head.

            "She might not have changed dimensions," said the Senior Wrangler. "We found a precedent for a delayed return from the dead."

            "Then I guess we should talk to Death," said Ponder.

            The wizards looked at one another. They had the power to summon Death, but it wasn't anything they liked to do on a regular basis. The Prince of Eternity got a bit huffy if he was disturbed at an inconvenient time.

            "Maybe we should exhaust all other possibilities first," said the Dean.

            Ponder rubbed his glasses with a corner of his robe. "Now that I think about it, Death really could give us some answers. At least he could tell us if she's really dead. That would help narrow the list of possible solutions. Process of elimination."

            "No Death," said Ridcully firmly. "I heard he's involved in some sort of theatrical production at the moment and frowns on interruptions. We'll do whatever else we can. Death is the last resort. He prefers it that way, you know."


	14. The Chase Begins

14. The Chase Begins

            Nearly nightfall and Lord Vetinari wore gray.

            What the Patrician wore on any given day rarely changed, a plain black robe of good material but rather shabby from wear. He was unimaginative about clothing and certainly indifferent; he hadn't been to a tailor in a decade.

            Since he always appeared in public in black, few people knew about his gray wardrobe, the shades ranging from winter sky gray to iron to smoke, a near-black. These weren't robes but trousers and shirts and they were still in good shape compared to his robes because he rarely wore them anymore. Gray was streetwear in the Patrician's view. The shade he'd chosen was the gray of chimney ash, of the random dust that settled in the cleanest of rooms, of the dirt that pervaded the Shades.

            A bundle under his arm, he walked quickly through the streets of Morpork, enjoying his anonymity. Long ago he'd discovered how useless a disguise was when all he had to do was cultivate in the public eye a consistent image – in this case, his black robe and walking stick – so that no one who passed him casually in the street recognized him as the Patrician. He was wearing gray. The Patrician wore black. He was walking without a cane. The Patrician always used one. Therefore, the tall, thin man with a black beard and piercing blue eyes who had an amazing resemblance to the Patrician couldn't possibly _be_ the Patrician. It was logical.

            And, he admitted to himself reluctantly as he crossed Sator Square, walking was easier on his knees than climbing from rooftop to rooftop. He'd done it routinely as a young Assassin, moved invisibly above the streets. The last time he tried it, he needed a cold compress on his left leg afterward. The toll of time on the body. Nearly half a century…

            He stopped up short behind a stall for the selling of various smoked cheeses and peeked out. The streets still held a good number of people, last minute shoppers at the market, merchants beginning to take down their stalls, but without too much trouble he picked out of the crowd the peach-coloured scarf. He'd seen it up on Broadway, on the Maul, in the Cham. The gauzy scarf tied around the dark hair of Isabella Capelli. A merchant shoved a perfume bottle under her nose but she waved it away and continued to advance confidently on Vetinari's hiding place. His invisibility trick didn't work, his talent for blending into the background by cultivating a stillness that worked like camouflage. She seemed to expect him to do it, and instead of seeking him out in the bustling movement in the streets, she looked for points of immobility. A still shadow in a doorway or against a wall. These were so rare in Ankh-Morpork that it was an excellent strategy for spotting the Patrician even when he was at his most self-effacing. 

            He slipped into the street again and dodged a cart full of unsold melons that nearly blocked the entrance to a narrow alley. On the other side of the cart he coaxed the donkey until it blocked the entrance completely, then he sprinted away. 

            By the time he reached the Contract Bridge, she'd picked up his trail again. His weaving and feinting and ducking through the streets and alleys hadn't fazed her. Her knowledge of the city was as minute as his despite the differences in the city map she'd drawn. 

            He stopped outside a confectioners shop and waved for her to come. She did without hesitation.

            "I would like to make a small request, if I may," he said.

            Isabella nodded.

            "Please go back to the Palace."

            "I want to be there too, Havelock."

            He pulled her out of the way of a man on horseback, the grip on her arm slightly tighter than it needed to be. He levelled a cold, displeased stare at her.

            "Please do as I ask."

            "You shouldn't go there by yourself. She's dangerous. She talked about killing you and--"

            "For the last time, I _advise_ you to go back to the Palace, find an interesting book, take it to your favorite room and stay there until I return."

            She shook her head, her frown determined.

            His grip on her arm tightened a fraction, but enough to be noticeable and distinctly uncomfortable. And then…

            He changed. 

            His face softened. It was like the instantaneous thawing of ice.

             "Perhaps you will spare the thought that I am concerned about your well being and am prepared to do whatever I can to protect you. I hope you will make my task as easy and pleasant as possible." 

            "Your chivalry doesn't work on me." 

            "I am very aware that it doesn't. I am simply being…me." He gave her hand a slight squeeze. "Will you be reasonable and go back to the Palace?"

            She shook her head again.

            It was clear to the Patrician that it was pointless to be irritated with her. She was twice as worried as she wanted to let on. He knew it by her eyes, which had always said everything, even back then, no matter how bland and emotionless she tried to make them. That was a skill he'd assumed she would never learn, and it appeared he'd been right.

            "I'm sorry for upsetting you," he said. He smiled faintly, leaned down and kissed her in full view of anybody who happened to be walking, riding, loafing or generally passing to or from Cheapside and Brewer Street. They were ignored. A tall man in gray kissing a dark-haired woman in a peach scarf was nothing to gape at. It was Ankh-Morpork, after all. As long as the lady and gentleman's hands remained on the outer side of the other's clothing, it wasn't much of a show. 

            The Patrician breathed for a moment against Isabella's cheek, then offered her his arm. She stared up at him in a moment of real, speechless shock. In thirteen years of marriage and a couple years of courtship before that, he had never kissed her in public. She was dazed enough to let him lead her across the bridge to where two watchmen were doing what they do best. Watching. They looked at the Patrician and Isabella, looked at one another, then back at the Patrician.

            "Er…" said the first.

            "What is your name, my good man?" asked Lord Vetinari.

            "Constable Stronginthearm, sir." He was a dwarf. He didn't salute, but looked slightly confused and appealed silently to his partner. This was unfortunate because his partner was Sergeant Detritus, a troll who was confused by cheese. 

            "Constable," said the Patrician, "do you know who I am?"

            "You look familiar, sir…" Stronginthearm looked to Detritus again. The troll looked down at Vetinari.

            "Dat is…uh…Dat's…" His voice wandered into a mumble.

            "I am the Patrician."

            Stronginthearm squinted up at Lord Vetinari. It was a long squint because the Patrician was a tall man.

            "I thought the Patrician was a bit more…a bit more…" There was no way he was going to say threatening. There was the chance the man in gray before him really was the Patrician and the last thing a watchmen should do is show that he doesn't recognize the man who pays his wages.

            With a great stone fingernail, Detritus scratched his helmet. "Dat's uh… Wait, don't tell me. Dat's uh…"

            The Patrician sighed and unwrapped his bundle. It turned out to be a long black suit jacket. He slipped it on.

            There was a shocked instant of realization from both watchmen, then they snapped to attention. 

            "Sah!" said Detritus, his helmet chiming as he saluted.

            "Good man." The Patrician squeezed Isabella's arm. "I have a task for you. I would like you to arrest this woman."

            "_Havelock_!" 

            "She's been disturbing the peace. Disgraceful, really. Kindly escort her to Pseudopolis Yard and keep her in a cell until I come for her. A nice cell, please. Do you have anything with a comfortable sofa?"

            "I don't think so, sir," said Stronginthearm.

            Isabella tried to twist out of Vetinari's grasp. "How could you even _think_--"

            "Pity. An armchair of some kind would do. I would also like four guards outside her cell at all times. No visitors. Is that clear?"

            "_You rotten bast--_"

            "Is that clear, sergeant?"

            There was a ching as Detritus saluted again. "Sah!"

            Stronginthearm looked doubtful. "Do you need us to handcuff her, sir?"

            The Patrician raised an eyebrow at Isabella. "Do you intend to resist?"

            She tried to yank her arm away again but he held it easily. 

            "Handcuffs please, constable."

            People stopped their progress over the bridge to watch. Someone getting arrested was always good for a few minutes of spontaneous entertainment. There were comments about Isabella's hair and what she was wearing. There were people who assumed she was a seamstress who made the mistake of trying to negotiate affections with Lord Vetinari. Some spectators thought it was refreshing to see the Patrician out taking a personal interest in cleaning up the unlicensed criminal element in the city. Only the more thoughtful people in the audience wondered why the woman called the Patrician by his first name when she swore at him.

            Lord Vetinari released Isabella only after the handcuffs weighed down her wrists. He spoke softly into her ear. 

            "You may have noticed I apologized for this in advance in an excessively sweet and tender way," he said. "Please take it gracefully." He nodded at the watchmen. "Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. Carry on."

            He turned on his heel and strode off.

            Isabella, Detritus and Stronginthearm stared after him. The crowd began to break up. 

            "I'm going to kill him," said Isabella.

            "Er, ma'am, I think that's a crime," said Stronginthearm. "Threatening the life of the Patrician isn't something you want to do when you already got handcuffs on."

            She glared at the dwarf. "Take me to Commander Vimes."

            "We were goin' der anyway," said Detritus with satisfaction. He liked it when prisoners made uncomplicated demands on him.

** 

            It had been dark a short time when the vampire Pefka arrived at Pseudopolis Yard. Corporal Nobbs was manning the front desk, which involved boots up on the table and a cigarette butt smouldering between his lips. At the sight of the vampire, Nobby made what he hoped was a nonchalant search of the desk for anything sharp and wooden. He found a pencil.

            "Good evening, sir," said Pefka. "I have come to see Commander Vimes."      

            "Not here," said Nobby. "You got an appointment?"

            "I am Pefka."

            Nobby reluctantly righted his chair and pretended to look through some sheets of paper on the desktop. Pefka leaned forward a little. Nobby leaned back, his pencil at the ready.

            "'ere, no sniffin' on me!" 

            "Pardon. There is an interesting scent here. I thought perhaps it was your cigarette."

            Pefka knew it wasn't the cigarette but it sounded like a plausible explanation.

            "I didn't nick this from nobody," said Nobby, the cigarette bobbing in his mouth. "An' I don't got a Pefka scheduled."

             "Then perhaps I could…" he turned his head a little, breathing slowly, "wait in the cells?"

            "You want to be arrested?"

            "Oh, no. Just to visit the cells. If I may."

            Nobby looked doubtful. He wished there was someone else around to shove the work of decision making onto. But it was the quiet during the supper hour and he was alone. Pefka leaned over the desk again and Nobby leaned back.

            "No threatening a watchman," he said. "I got a pencil, you know." He brandished it in what he hoped was a threatening fashion.

            Pefka pointed with a long finger toward a doorway to the left. "The way is over there, sir?" Before Nobby responded, Pefka strode to the door and pulled it open.

            Pseudopolis Yard hadn't been built as a jail, so it was difficult now that it was Watch headquarters to get the real dank squalor of the old city jails to fit into the thickly carpeted, wall papered, curtained environment. The house had belonged to the Ramkins and Sybil had made a gift of it to the Watch. When the watchmen had moved in, they found even the cellars had been kept scrubbed and neat, and in many places had good ventilation and the occasional oil painting to brighten things up. They left everything largely where it was and built six small cells. None of them were very frightening. There were several petty criminals and vagrants who committed crimes just to get thrown in the cellar of the Yard. It was nicer than home.

            Pefka nodded politely to Bald Lou, who shrank against the wall, his hand rubbing his full, thick head of hair, as it always did. Lou was the jailer and he believed the hair on his head to be a toupee glued on by his ex-wife. He insisted he felt like a bald man.

            Pefka strolled past the graffiti-covered holding cell and its handful of occupants playing dice on the floor, and followed his nose straight to a cell whose door was blocked because there were four watchmen squatting on the floor in front of it. They all had cards in their hands.

            "Fifteen," said one.

            "Nah, that was never." 

            "He had a triple. Fives, w'nit?

            Another of the watchmen threw his cards on the ground. "It was fifteen. Deal again."

            "Pardon, gentlemen."

            Irritated, the watchmen glared up at Pefka. Then they slowly set down their cards and stood up, subconsciously pressing together shoulder to shoulder. After much shuffling and mumbling, one of the guards said, "What you doin' here? The cells ain't for the public."

            "I hoped I could visit the occupant of this cell, constable."

            "You family?"

            "I'm afraid not."

            "Wouldn't matter if you was. We got orders not to let anybody in."

            "But surely, constable…"

            "Nobody." The leader looked sideways at his fellows, who nodded with reluctance. They weren't armed. Watchmen were hardly ever armed.

            Pefka gave them all a closed-mouthed smile. "We can manage somehow to co-operate, gentlemen." Slowly, he showed his teeth.

            Meanwhile, Nobby had been five minutes in his relaxed, boots-on-the-desk position when Vimes rushed in. The commander was always rushing in or rushing out, but he was never going too fast or mumbling to himself too much to notice who was at the desk. 

            "Boots down, Nobby," he said. "Any news?" It hadn't been dark long but Vimes was waiting for the report of another murder.

            Nobby shrugged. "Well, the lads brought in a lady said the Patrician wanted her arrested."

            Vimes frowned. "What lady?"

            Nobby poked around his papers. "Isabella Capelli. She was a little teed off, if you know what I mean. Called him 'that double-crossing bastard of a husband,' which I thought was strange because I dint know the Patrician _had_ a…"

            "You put _her_ in the cells?"

            Nobby held up his hands. "It wasn't my idea! Stronginthearm and Detritus said that's what the Patrician wanted."

            Vimes snatched the intake paper from the desk and glanced at it. "Disturbing the peace. Threatening the life of the Patrician." He slammed it back down and took off for the cells. "Send Stronginthearm down _now_."

            "He's already down there, sir."            

            Vimes found four watchmen, including the dwarf Stronginthearm, lined up opposite one of the cells, staring at the closed door in complete silence.

            "What the bloody hell is going on, Stronginthearm?"

            The dwarf gestured toward the door. "He's in there, sir."

            "_She_, man. Where's she?"

            "She's in there too."

            Vimes looked from one face to the next. The watchmen were clamped up, pale, slightly sweaty. Vimes lowered his voice.

            "What do you mean the Patrician wanted her arrested?"

            Stronginthearm told what happened on the Contract Bridge.                

            "She hadn't done anything?"

            "Not that we saw, sir."

            "What about this threatening the life of the Patrician business?"

            "That was after he left. She said she was gonna kill him."

            If the Patrician suddenly got the urge to arrest him, Vimes knew he'd say the same thing. But nobody meant it when they said it. Announcing it wasn't that smart to begin with. The people who took that kind of thing seriously were either dead or permanent guests at the Palace. 

            Vimes pushed open the door without knocking.

            Pefka was down on his knees in front of Isabella, who sat on the plank bed by the wall, her hands folded in her lap. She was shaking her head.

            When he didn't know what to say, Vimes relied on the old policeman's standby. He stomped inside. "What's all this, then?" he demanded. 

            Pefka and Isabella stood up abruptly.

            "Please let me out," she said. "It's an injustice to keep me here."

            "First things first." Vimes turned to Pefka. "What are you doing here?"

            "Speaking with Miss Capelli."

            "You were on your knees. You usually speak to ladies on your knees?"

            "Usually they ask first." 

            "There's no time left, commander. Please let me out!"

            "No time for what?"

            Isabella opened her mouth and then closed it with a snap. Vimes shook his head.

            "This won't do. I want to know what's happening. Why did the Patrician have you arrested?"

            "He was being," she gritted her teeth, "difficult."

            "Nothing unusual there. You disturbed the peace?"

            "_His_ peace."

            Pefka was gazing at Isabella.

            "I must ask you, Madam," he said. "I must. It is…" His voice trailed off. He was looking at her in much the same way Klieg had. "It is a delicacy. It must be! Madam, please allow me just one tiny sip…"

            Vimes' eyes narrowed. "Sip of what?" 

            "Please," said Pefka. He tried to step toward her but Vimes got between.

            "What has got into you?"

            "You are an orchestra," said Pefka. Isabella was frowning.

            "Why?"

            Vimes had the sensation of being present at a conversation that was not following any known script. 

            "Your scent, Madam. It is…" Pefka took a deep breath. "Like a vast forest of evergreens in winter."

            "What does that have to do with my--" 

            "You have the scent of a thousand lives," said Pefka. "And the tang will carry over in the taste of your blood."

            Vimes put a protective arm out in front of Isabella. "I told you -- None of that when you're working for me," he growled.

            "I never take without paying," said Pefka, "And Madam, believe me, I will pay anything. I will find her and bring you her head. I will bring her alive, whatever you ask as long as my reward is just one glass."

            Vimes pointed to the door. "Get out before I throw you out on your filthy, blood-sucking ar--"

            "Commander, wait." Isabella's troubled expression hadn't passed, but she looked like she had some small cause for hope. "You can track her, Mr. Pefka? Right now?"

            "Yes, Madam. Now. Immediately. Tell me where to begin."

            "Track _her_?" Vimes demanded, the conversation finally crystallising through his anger. "The vampire? The murderer?" Isabella and Pefka were ignoring him, looking at one another in some silent world of understanding. He turned on Isabella. "What do you know about her?"

            Isabella said nothing. Vimes turned to Pefka.

            "You saw her, didn't you?" 

            Pefka shook his head.

            "Smelled her then. You tracked her. To where?"

            The vampire didn't answer.

            "You tracked her to…the Palace. She was at the Palace, wasn't she?" Vimes whipped back around to Isabella. "Does the Patrician know that? What am I talking about? The Patrician knows everything. He damn well knows where she is, doesn't he?" Isabella didn't respond but Vimes was on a role. "That's where he was going, wasn't it? He didn't want you to follow." 

            On a good day, Vimes could get away with being only mildly irritated at the world. But half the time he found something to be generally angry about, and right now, it was a case of full-blown fury. _The Patrician knows_ was running through his head. _The Patrician knows_.

            He grasped Pefka's arm. "Can you track Vetinari?"

            "I've never been in his presence, sir. I don't have his scent."

            Vimes glared at him for a moment, then snapped his fingers.

            "Stronginthearm!" he yelled.

            The dwarf stuck his head in.

            "Get Sergeant Angua and tell her to meet us at the Contract Bridge."

            "Promise me," said Pefka to Isabella. 

            "If you help us catch her," she said. She grabbed her scarf and tied it around her neck.


	15. Terms of Respect

15. Terms of Respect

            "Come to kill me, Vetinari?" 

            Klieg lay draped over the edge of her coffin, her chin on a pale hand, her hair spilling like an oil slick over the wood. The cellar was dark except for the slivers of moonlight that came in from a tiny grate high up on one of the dank stone walls. 

            The Patrician had changed to all black. To most eyes, he was invisible. Not to Klieg's.

            "I suggest we have a conversation like civilized creatures," he said from his corner. 

            Klieg yawned, revealing two uncomfortably long fangs. She patted her mouth, stretched, and stood up in the coffin.

            "Vill you give me my clozing, please?" 

            Vetinari tossed them over. He wasn't about to be uncomfortable merely at the sight of a nude woman. He was made of stronger stuff than that. Klieg dressed slowly. Showing off, flexing a long pale leg before slipping it slowly into her trousers, and so on. He was not impressed. 

            When she finished, Klieg stepped out of the coffin and went to the single rough table in a corner, uncorked a ceramic pot, plugged her nose and took a drink.

            "I'm alvays so zirsty in ze morning. Drink?" She shook the bottle at Vetinari. The contents swished thickly. He remained impassive, silent. "I didn't zink so," she said. "Vhat shall ve talk about?"

            "Have you been enjoying our fair city?"

            "Oh yes. Ze Ankh-Morpork hospitality is legendary. Vhy, a fellow vampire gave me zis vonderful cellar vizout zinking. So generous."

            "What do you think of the cuisine?"

            Klieg licked her lips. "Exqvisite. Ze children especially are zo tender. I zink it is ze diet of jammy devils." She grinned.

            "Four men and three children dead in a week. All your work?"

            "Oh, yes."

            Vetinari paused, his hands clasped behind his back. "Your meals have caused quite a bit of bad feeling in the city toward vampires. Unfortunate."

            Klieg shrugged.

            "More than a dozen have been injured," said the Patrician.

            Her smile disappeared. "Veaklings! Zey should fight back."

            "Most apparently don't think it worth giving up their vows of abstinence."

            "Veaklings! Zey try to stop being vhat zey are and start being vhat zey are not. It is pazetic."

            "I assume then that you don't think it noble to control the base appetites."

            "Zey can not be controlled. Not nature. It is pushed down and grows stronger in ze dark. Everyzing grows stronger in ze dark. And vone day, it comes in a rush vorse zan before..." Her eyes were gleaming.

            The pattern of murders was too calculated to be random in Lord Vetinari's view, and he'd concluded even before the children died that the murderer wanted to anger a broad spectrum of Morporkians. It made sense only in light of the conflict between the Reds and  Blacks in Uberwald. A Red could come to the city, feed on members of each social class and enrage the people enough to make violence a likely outcome. The Black Ribboners of Ankh-Morpork would be tested: React passively to the xenophobia or answer it with a violence that could topple their convictions about consuming human blood. 

            A very clever test. Very…political.

            The Patrician sharpened his gaze. He didn't move, didn't blink, didn't smile or frown. The stillness of him, the utter lack of even the tiniest automatic motion, was something like the stillness of a coil when the tension is at its highest.

            It was a contrast with Klieg. She moved fluidly as she closed the distance between them.

            "Tell me about your vife, Vetinari. How does she taste?"

            "I have no wife."

            Klieg smiled. "Ah…Isabella, she lies to increase my envy and passion. Vhat a delight."

            "She did not lie."

            Klieg's smile dropped. A thoughtful moment passed before she said, "Zat is vhy she is sad. She believes herself to be vhat she is not. Too many people do zis. Vampires and humans." She shrugged. "I shall see her ven ve are finished viz our business."

            Vetinari folded his fingers before his lips. "Ah, business. Yes. Arising no doubt from your place in Lady Margolotta's household. Kind of your employer to give you a business trip, hm? Half holiday, half work."

            Festus' answer to his clacks query about a vampire named Lavinia hadn't contained much, but it did reveal an interesting detail. Her last known place of residence, Margolotta's castle.

            "Employer?" Klieg's fangs could be seen even in the dimness as she smiled. "Oh, Vetinari, you have no idea. _Really_…" 

            She laughed, a hearty, high-pitched chuckling. The Patrician waited patiently. 

            "Zank you for a tremendous laugh. It is very healzy. No, I call Margolotta Milady but not because I vork for her in ze same vay a clerk vorks for you. It is a term of respect. All children should have respect for zeir parents." 

            Vetinari's face hadn't really changed, but Klieg's broadening smile seemed to be a reaction to something she saw in him. A twitch, perhaps. A minute shift in the eyes. A slight deepening of the lines between his brows.

            "So, you see now! Bravo! Do you zink ve vampires valk around saying mama and papa? Ha! Ve have more style. Some of us." The malicious glee suddenly dropped from her face as if it had been wiped away with a cloth. "Have you nozing to say, Vetinari?"

            He didn't.

            "Maybe if you have more information. Information is currency, is it not?" Her eyes narrowed. "I am young. Tventy nine years ago I vas born into zis vorld and my mozer is Margolotta. Tventy nine years. How is your mazematics, hm? Are you reckoning vell tonight?"

            Lord Vetinari remained silent.

            "Remind me again exactly vhen you visited Ubervald. Zat vas vhich monz?" Klieg tapped her temple with a finger and stared into space as if trying to remember something. "Grune. A beautiful Grune in ze forests, vas it not? And zen, oh, nine monzs later…"

            Klieg stepped right up to the Patrician and stood on tiptoe so she could match the level of his stare. They were almost nose to nose. He made no attempt to lean back or move away.  

            "Out of respect I should call you Milord but I vill not," she hissed. "I do not respect you and so I call you Vetinari." 

**

            They rushed through the twisted, narrow alleys of the Shades, Sergeant Angua in the lead, her nose taking them on what clearly wasn't the most direct route to wherever the Patrician had gone. Several times they passed the same tavern or street with a broken lantern, and once or twice, Angua pulled up short, her face turned up.

            She did it again. They were at a nameless street corner surrounded by ramshackle, half-timbered houses that looked like a soft breeze would blow them over. Property tax was paid on ground only, so the houses had been built as vertical as possible. People on the upper floors sought more room by building loggias jutting out over the street. The sky was nearly blotted out by them.

            "What's wrong?" asked Vimes.

            "I think the lines cross, sir."

            "The what?"

            "The scents. From here they go off in two different directions."

            "You sure they're both him?"

            Angua nodded. "One line is fainter than the other."

            "Where are they going?" 

            "One widdershins, one more hubwards."

            Vimes looked to Isabella. "Did he give any clue as to where the vampire was?"

            "He didn't tell me anything. That's why I was following him."

            "What about you," he said to Pefka, "can you smell him out?"

            "To be truthful," he looked at Isabella, "I can not smell anything very well when the lady is nearby."     

            A disgusted look passed over Vimes' face. He was wishing he'd brought more watchmen with him, or that at least he had a pigeon. Or a couple of mini clacks paddles. The only one in the group capable of doing much about the murderer if she took to the air when they found her was Pefka. Vimes couldn't send him off to follow one of the scent trails in case it was the wrong one.

            "All right, we'll stay together and pick a direction. Which way?" 

            "We can pick the older scent or the newer one," said Angua.

            "The old one could take us in circles again," said Isabella. 

            "Right. The new one, then." Vimes and the rest followed as Angua took off down the alley again, away from the river.

            It led to the clacks tower on Digger Street. 

            "Is she here?" Vimes asked Pefka quietly as he opened the door and peered up the dark stairway.

            "I am sorry, sir. But with Miss Capelli nearby, my powers of smell are overloaded."

            Isabella tried to push her way through the doorway but Vimes pulled her back.

            "Stay here."

            "Commander, I--"

            "No argument. Pefka, you take the lead in case she tries to flee. Angua, watch our backs." He drew his sword and they started as quietly and at the same time quickly as they could up the stairway. Isabella waited at the bottom only a moment before following.

            There was a door at the top of the stairs. Pefka pushed it open slowly and the group eased into the room beyond.

            It was a plain room that contained a large table, a chair, a lantern, a coffee pot and a young man who was nodding as he accepted a piece of paper from the hand of Lord Vetinari.

            "…and of the utmost urgency," the Patrician was saying. "Do it now." He pointed at the ceiling, which was the roof of the tower, from which the young man would send the color-coded signals, or clacks, to the next tower in the chain, which would forward them to the next, and so on. The man rushed out of the room.

            Since there was a lack of vampires, Vimes rammed his sword into its sheath and stalked up to the Patrician.

            "Why on the Disc didn't you _tell_ me the vampire was--" The righteous fury in his voice failed when the Patrician turned around.

            His face was calm in the same way one might call a lake without ripples or waves calm. There was a glassyness to his eyes, but otherwise, there was nothing physical – no frown, no bent brows, no glare, that would hint at anything out of the ordinary. He looked mildly displeased but that's how he usually looked.

            Yet he radiated something else, something invisible and at the same time more palpable than any expression of the face. It was a special quiet. The kind only felt in summer in the half hour of rising humidity and tension and expectation before the sky opens up and storms in a fury of cold rain and wind that beats the mortar off houses and snaps whole trees like twigs.             

            It felt like that in the room in the clacks tower.

            "Ah, commander," he said quietly. "I see your watchmen have disobeyed my instructions."

            "Havelock, what--" Isabella was stopped by a single, slim finger the Patrician placed in front of his lips. 

            Vimes wouldn't stand for that. "Did you find the vampire, sir?"

            "I see you've found one yourself." Vetinari nodded politely at Pefka. Again, his voice was unusually quiet, almost faint. "Let me say on behalf of the city that your help in the investigation is appreciated."

            "Thank you, sir."

            "Sir," said Vimes, trying to keep his voice calm, "_did you find her_."

            The Patrician gazed at him for a long moment. "No, commander." 

            Everyone in the room knew it wasn't true. Though he was a politician, Vetinari didn't lie particularly often. Most people assumed he could do it smoothly when he needed. This time, he was betrayed by the tension coming from him, thickening the air in the room. 

            "Why didn't you tell me she was at the Palace, sir?" said Vimes in a voice he hoped was reasonably soothing. He had the sense the Patrician would shatter at a loud noise.

            "There are thousands of vampires in the city. Should there be an automatic connection between a murderous vampire and one who appears at the Palace? Not necessarily. Unless you hold by the theory that all vampires are suspect, in which case Mr. Pefka here should not be trusted."

            The Patrician took Isabella by the arm and steered her toward the door, where Angua waited. She stepped aside, looking helplessly at Vimes.

            "Sir!" Vimes said, following them down the steps. "You're working against me. You must give me any information you have."

            "_Must_, commander?"

            "All right, should. You should tell me what's going on!"

            On Digger Street, the Patrician stopped at the curb.

            Vimes got in front of him. "Why don't you want me to know where she is?" 

            "I'm sure Mr. Pefka will assist you well in that." The Patrician snapped his fingers at a cab turning the corner up the street. It rumbled to a stop in front of them and Vetinari helped Isabella into the two-seater before climbing in himself. He ordered the driver to take them to the Palace.

            As the horses started to walk, Vimes kept pace.

            "If someone is killed tonight…"

            "It would be a terrible tragedy, yes."

            "We can prevent it, sir!"

            "I do hope so."

            "Tell me where she sleeps," said Vimes, jogging lightly now alongside the cab. "Just tell me that. If you know it, sir, tell me. For gods sake."

            The Patrician stared straight ahead, saying nothing. The gentle, hesitant pressure of a few fingers at his arm made him glance at Isabella. She looked like the last thing in the world she wanted to do was touch him but something had overridden her fear. 

            "Scree Lane, commander," he sighed. He slapped the side of the cab. "Driver! Faster!"

            They sped off. Vimes skidded to a stop, breathing harder than he should have, he realized with annoyance.

            "Sergeant!"

            She was right behind him.

            "I want twenty watchmen at Scree Lane. Now. Yesterday." He considered a moment.  "Detritus and all undead constables to be present, all right?"

            Angua didn't have to ask why. 

            Vimes waved at Pefka, who was still up the street, walking in a dignified fashion. 

            "You come with me," Vimes shouted, annoyed, energized and scared as Hades.


	16. On the Battlements

16. On the Battlements

            When the cab stopped to allow carts to cross the street Isabella suddenly grasped the Patrician's collar and pulled it down. The pale skin beneath was unbroken. She took his hands and pushed his sleeves up above the wrist and saw against each the tip of a slim, polished wooden stake strapped to each of his forearms. The stakes were clean.

            Vetinari leaned back and closed his eyes. His face slowly changed, the rock hard calmness slipping away like water, replaced by a look of immense fatigue. 

            "What happ--" Again, Isabella was cut off by one finger held to his lips.

            They sat in silence all the way back to the Palace.

            Inside, the Patrician took Isabella's arm and steered her without explanation to the Oblong Office. He left her there for a moment, then returned and locked the door. He checked the windows behind the curtains, then sat at his desk.

             "Please have a seat," he said.

            Isabella settled down, expecting to hear what happened with Klieg. Instead, the Patrician unlocked a drawer, the one for classified files, selected a file and started reading. She hesitated to disturb him. The tension he'd radiated at the clacks tower had returned.

            After a few minutes, there was a knock at the door. The Patrician opened it himself. A row of servants marched into the room. The first carried a large basket, the next a basin and covered pitcher, a towel over her shoulder, the next a pile of blankets and pillows and the next had Isabella's gowns over her arm. Behind, two burly servants hefted a long, dark green couch, the first backing in, his boots scuffing the carpet, the second quietly directing where they were going. The women servants set their things aside and together moved the Patrician's small conference table out of the way. The couch was set in its place against a wall. The servants left without bowing or showing any other sign that the Patrician and Isabella were in the room. He locked the door behind them.

            Isabella went to the table where the servants had set the basket, her clothes and the basin. Inside the basket were the little things she needed at night, a hair brush, tooth brush, the books she'd kept on her night stand, some ribbons, a pot of hand lotion. And her iconograph. 

            "I apologize for the accommodations," said the Patrician, "but it is necessary."

            "This is ridiculous. Tell me what's happening."

            He strode back to his desk but Isabella caught him by the arm before he could sit. "You're barricading me in here and you won't tell me why."

            He stared fixedly at her hand until she removed it.

            "You must trust me," he said.

            "I don't trust anyone who gets me arrested in public. Do you know how humiliating that was?" She held up her hands. "Handcuffs, Havelock! I was treated like a criminal and put in a cell at your order and you want me to trust you?"

            "If you don't wish to be protected," he waved at the door, "you are welcome to leave."

            "Don't play with me," she snapped. "As usual, your protection is worse than the threat."

            He narrowed his gaze at her. "Don't forget, Madam, that you are _not_ my wife. What happened does not concern you." He sat down at his desk. "Stay or go as you wish but if you stay, I advise you to make it a quiet evening. I'm not in a compassionate mood."

            "What are you going to do?"

            The Patrician held up his file. "Read. And wait. Perhaps you should do the same."

***      

            Scree Lane was one of those narrow little alleys in the Shades where squalor would have been an improvement. There were only five doorsteps on either side but Pefka's nose was working full throttle without Isabella around. He led Vimes to the right place, a grate at street level.

            The undead and other alternative species watchmen converged on the spot, carrying torches, weapons, whistles and clacks paddles in case the back up needed back up. Vimes dispatched a few to cover any back escape routes. Detritus was posted at the sturdy plank cellar door.

            When everyone was in position, Vimes cupped his hands at the grate and said, "Hello down there, occupant of the cellar at," he glanced up at the house numbers, "Number 3 Scree Lane. This is the City Watch. You've got ten seconds to open up. If you don't open up, our Sergeant Detritus will do it for you. Whoops, as of now you've now got seven seconds. What's your choice?"

            Tense and watchful, the watchmen counted in their heads.

            Seven.

            "It has been duly noted that the occupant of the cellar at house number 3 didn't have the good sense to open up," Vimes said into the grate. "The city will not be financially responsible for any damage done to property at house number 3. Understand? Right!"

            He nodded at Detritus.

            The troll put his fist through the door, reached through the ragged hole he'd made, and found the bolt was already undone. That kind of thing usually embarrassed Vimes but he ignored it. Pefka went first into the cellar.

**

            Isabella had tried to read but ended up staring at the candles on the Patrician's conference table. The only sound in the room was the whisper of rustling paper when Lord Vetinari turned over a page in his file. The flames were steady, untouched by random drafts, but still, they mesmerized her. Thoughts scattered and came together in her mind. Snippets of verse, memories, old and recent conversations.

            One string of words played and replayed in her thoughts. 

            _Don't forget, Madam, that you are not my wife, _he'd said. _What happened does not concern you_.

            The words were…telling. At least, that's what some corner of her mind seemed to be signalling. If she's not the Patrician's wife, what happened with Klieg does not concern her. So logically, one could perhaps deduce that if she _was_ the Patrician's wife, what happened with Klieg _would_ concern her. 

            What kinds of things could have happened that would concern the Patrician's wife? She couldn't begin to think of any possibilities that would sit well. 

            Lord Vetinari folded his hands on the desk and gazed at her. Just looked, with no discernible emotion on his face. Then Isabella heard him get up and cross the room and sit at the table beside her.

            "I apologize for being short with you," he said. "It was impolite and unnecessary."

            Isabella's gaze stayed on the candles.

            "Having you arrested was also impolite but it was necessary. Lavinia has an unhealthy interest in you."

            "Yet none of this concerns me."

            They said nothing for a few minutes. When she glanced at the Patrician, Isabella saw that he had her iconograph open on the table and was staring at the handwriting on the back. 

            "Why the name Octavia?" he asked.

            "She was born on the eighth day of the eighth month."

            He nodded. "The others are more sentimental. Your father's name."

            "And your mother's."

            He turned the iconograph over and looked again at the faces. Isabella had an arm around Octavia's shoulder and stared straight out of the picture with an accusing look in her eyes.

            "You don't look particularly happy."

            "I was furious."

            She'd told him why. One fifth of the family too busy for a family portrait. 

            "I'm sure it was very urgent business."

            "I don't want to hear it." She had an edge to her voice. It seemed an old irritation, this topic. He let it pass.

            "Octavia looks very serious," he said.  

            "She's the only 8-year-old on the Disc who voluntarily sits still for her tutor. She learned that from you." Isabella rested an elbow on the table, her chin in her hand. "I'll never forget what you told me after she was born. You came back from showing her off to everyone around the Palace and you said…" She cleared her throat and took on a rather good if higher pitched imitation of Vetinari's voice, "…'You've produced an impressively quick-witted baby, Isa. I explained some things about Ankh-Morpork and she asked far fewer questions than you do.' I wanted to know what she _did_ ask. You said: 'She made a kitten-like mewing sound that I took to be a query of the state of the city treasury. I told her she's far too young to be that depressed.'"

            It was fast but Isabella saw it. A very faint, very fleeting smile from the Patrician, no more than a slight softening of his features. It didn't last.

            "I never said those things," he said. "Don't forget that."

            "The twins are little demons. People tell us Antonia is just like her namesake, naturally upbeat and active. She climbs everything, bookcases, the coach, table tops, your desk, anything. And Marco, he always has to be center stage. I'm afraid if we aren't careful, he'll grow up to be an actor."

            "My word."

            "Terrifying, isn't it?" 

            The Patrician closed the iconograph and passed it to Isabella.

            "Interesting…stories." 

            She could practically see it on his face, the dismissal of everything she'd said. In his mind, he waved it all away as meaningless. A fairy tale that didn't concern him. 

            "That's definitely me and those are our children," she said. "They _are_. It's not just a dream in my head…"

            "You seem to think the iconograph confirms your memories," said the Patrician. "Perhaps your memories have conformed to the iconograph. Perhaps it is as enchanted as the wizards have found your gown to be."

            He went back to his desk and found something random to read, though he wasn't really interested in it. After a few minutes, he glanced at Isabella over the paper and saw her bent, pressing her scarf over her eyes. The comment about the iconograph was too much, he knew. It was always dangerous to shake someone's convictions so abruptly. He set down his reading, his shame nearly overruling him, nearly driving him to correct what he realized was unnecessary callousness. But he didn't move from his chair. 

            Later, Isabella stretched out on the sofa and pulled a blanket around her. The books the servants had brought her didn't interest her. As an alternative to dwelling on the iconograph, she tried to think of what Vetinari had said earlier about Klieg.

            Don't forget, Madam, that you are not my wife. What happened does not concern you.

            What would concern Lord Vetinari's wife? What was her chief concern in the memories, the dream, the reality she carried inside her? 

            They had names: Octavia, Antonia and Marco. 

**

            Pefka didn't have to open the coffin.

            "She isn't here, commander."

            "What do you mean she isn't here?"

            "Sir!"

            Angua was kneeling under the wooden table in front of a dark, dank and  foul-smelling hole in the wall. There was obviously a direct path from the hole to the river. Pefka sniffed.

            "Twenty minutes behind her."

            Angua was impressed. "You can smell her through that?"

            "More important, can you see in that?" said Vimes. "That's concentrated Ankh air. A match will light it like a torch."

            "Follow me." Pefka pulled himself rather fastidiously into the hole.

            Vimes ordered some men to stay behind, took a deep breath and followed into the darkness.  

**

            The knock at the door was soft but it was enough to wake Isabella out of her doze. Throwing off the blanket, she was at the door and had it open before the Patrician moved from his desk. The clerk Drumknott was about to say something but Isabella snatched the paper out of his hand and slammed the door in his face. She scanned it.

            Vetinari decided to wait. 

            She took up a quill and pot of ink, and settled at the conference table to work. The code was fiendishly difficult, one of Leonard's, but Isabella was familiar with it. She'd never been able to decode without writing everything down systematically. She wrote on the back of the clacks message, flipping the paper back and forth, smudging the ink. There was a point, ten minutes later, when the message was clear despite some of the words remaining in code. 

            The Patrician watched her from his desk. Watched her set the quill down slowly as if it would shatter. Watched her face change. Shock transforming to dread and then…anger. Her mouth opened, as if she had to breath through it to get enough air. And then she fetched a candle and walked quickly out of the office.

            He glanced at both sides of the sheet. Diplomatic code was added to his mental list of things Isabella shouldn't know. And, of course, the contents of the message belonged on the list as well. Taking the paper and a box of matches, he went to the hearth.        

**

            The rancid, ancient sewer tunnel from the cellar on Scree Lane curved around under the streets, the air so putrid by the end that even Vimes, lifelong Morporkian, could barely stand it. Pefka finally led the Watch up a short flight of steps and out into the night. They were on the extreme turnwise end of Rime Street.

            "You got her?" Vimes said between gulps of relatively fresh air.

            Pefka nodded. "We've closed the gap but we must go faster now."

            They raced off again.

**

            After Isabella left the Oblong Office she started sprinting. A hand shielding the candle flame, she ran through the hallways and up the stairs to the room with the secret passage to the Rimward Tower. She rushed to the sideboard. It was clean, empty. She opened drawer after drawer and pawed through the contents, then dumped them on the floor. Dropping to her knees, she searched through the cutlery and napkin rings and found nothing. She stayed on the floor, groping underneath the sideboard, grasping in the darkness in panic. She wiped her eyes and crawled to the sofa, feeling underneath, finding nothing. There was nothing on the little table, nothing on the shelves, nothing between the sofa cushions. By the time she'd searched everywhere she could think of, traitorous thoughts paraded through her mind. Maybe it had never been there. All of it false, all of it…

            And it wasn't on her hand. There wasn't even a faint pallor around her fourth finger, any sign that she'd ever worn it. 

            She scrambled to the entrance to the secret passage and sprinted along the dark corridors beyond. When she reached the Rimward Tower her face was dry, the panic subdued by the physical work of the stairways. She breathed hard and looked out over the city.

            "Lavinia," she gasped.

            The night was very still, without wind. The low-grade roar of street noise could be heard, even from that height.

            "Lavinia," she said again.

            She wished there was wind. It would carry her scent. 

            "Lavinia!" she shouted. The name shot thinly through the air and fell, without echoes.

            Isabella turned in frustration and there was Klieg. Leaning against the battlements.

            "I am so happy you vere looking for me," she said, smiling.

            It had been impossible for Isabella to hide that she was startled, but she smoothed it over.

            "Tell me what you said to the Patrician."

            Klieg's smile grew. "Oh, ve said many zings. Vetinari vas not happy vhen he left. He does not deserve happiness."

            "Why not?"

            There was a non-committal shrug from Klieg, then she separated herself from the wall. Isabella stood her ground.

            "Did you talk about family life?" she asked.

            "He said you are not his vife."

            "He's wrong."

            Klieg's smile disappeared. "He did not lie. He has no vife. I asked ozers."

            "They're all wrong."

            "Oh, my dear, you have zis idea in your mind but vhy? He is not vorzy." She took Isabella's hand in both of hers.

            "Maybe not, but it's true. I know it is." As Isabella said it, she realized how damning that was. Insisting on something too hard is a sign of self-delusion. An attempt to make something true through repetition and conviction. 

            "How old are you, Lavinia?" she asked.

            Klieg released Isabella and struck a pose in the moonlight. "How old do I look?"

            "Not a day over two hundred."

            "Zat is not very flattering." Klieg wagged a finger.

            Isabella hooked her arm in Klieg's and walked her to the edge of the tower. 

            "What will happen when you kiss me?"

            "Depends on ze kind of kiss."

            "A…bite."

            "Ah." Klieg smiled again. "Zat also depends. If I merely taste you and zen stop ze bleeding, you vill become as I am."

            "Do you recommend it? Vampirism?"

            There was another non-committal shrug. "Ach, ya, it is interesting. At times. It can also be immensely boring." She nodded thoughtfully. "Immortality is not for everyvone."

            "Do you think I would enjoy it?"

            "No. Your heart is too vonderfully soft."

            "Would the Patrician enjoy it?"

            Klieg frowned, her eyes narrowed. "Probably. Ve shall see, hm?"

            Without warning, Klieg kissed Isabella on the mouth, then pulled back, her tongue running over her lips. "You taste of beaujolais."

            "Did you really kill all those people?" 

            "Oh, yes."

            "The Patrician has the right to punish you."

            "He vill not. He did not vhen he had ze chance."          

            "Why not?" 

            Isabella wanted to hear it from Klieg herself. The clacks message had been from Festus, who reported, "The issue of vampires and pregnancy is a touchy subject, one that yields much misinformation. It is, indeed, possible for a female vampire to bear a child, though it is frowned upon by nearly all in the community, particularly when the partner is non-human. If there is even a rumour of a past pregnancy on the part of Lady M., I have yet to discover it…" and Isabella had stopped reading because that was all she needed to know.  

            "Why won't he punish you?" she asked Klieg.

            The vampire kissed her again, fighting her resistance. With her foot, Isabella could feel that they were right on the edge of the tower platform. A step backward and they would be over. 

            Behind them, there was the sound of a throat being politely cleared. "Pardon me for interrupting." The Patrician stood at the center wall, his hands behind his back. 

            Klieg huffed in frustration.

            "It is not your turn, Vetinari."

            "Havelock, go away." 

            He raised an eyebrow.

            "Go," she repeated.

            "You see?" Klieg was smiling. 

            "I'm afraid I can't allow such shenanigans in my Palace." Lord Vetinari looked around at the tower. "Or _on_ it, in this case."

            Klieg looked questioningly at Isabella. "Vhat does zat mean? Shenani…?"

            "You don't need to protect me, Havelock. Go back inside."

            She knew he wasn't going to do it. He wouldn't leave. It would be an impolite thing to do, leaving her with an infatuated, murderous vampire. He wouldn't even do it if it was in the best interest of Ankh-Morpork. She assumed he knew what she intended to do. And had come to stop it. 

            Klieg advanced on the Patrician. "Listen to your vife-not-vife, Vetinari. Go back inside. I vill come for you later."

            He smiled pleasantly. "Come for me now."


	17. Extenuating Circumstances

** (*cue evil, insane cackling*) I'm having so much fun seeing y'all biting your nails! But I'm not going to drag out the suspense too long – like Havvie, I do have a heart. (*grin*) A word to anna: You won't have to wait too much longer for answers to your questions. So… here's the next chap. Enjoy!**

17. Extenuating Circumstances

            The first thrust of the Patrician's wooden stake missed its target because Klieg was much faster than he was. She bent out of the way of the wood, danced away, laughing. 

            "Anozer round!" she cried. She skipped toward him and dodged two of his blows, quick jabs of the right and left stakes, and caught him with her fist in the ribs. He doubled over. 

            Klieg stood over him, her hands on her hips. "You are zin and veak, Vetinari."

            A moment later he straightened again, his face grim, his body still.

            "Lavinia! Stop!" shouted Isabella.

            Klieg ignored her. She lifted herself into the air, floated out of the Patrician's reach, and descended on him at speed, twisting away from the wooden points. This time, the flat of her hand caught him across the face hard enough to knock him back and against the tower battlements.

            "You vork all day in a chair," Klieg said with satisfaction. "At a desk. Vhy did you zink you could fight?"

            There was blood on the Patrician's face.          

            "Lavinia!" Isabella cried again.

            The Patrician staggered to his feet, the look in his eye of dead determination. He tightened his grip on the stakes and took his waiting stance again.

            "Zis is so lovely," said Klieg. She held an arm up in the air. "I shall beat you viz vone hand, shall I?" She plunged at him and the stakes in his hands cracked as he crossed them to block her, but the force of her advance drove him against the battlements again. He lost his wind and slid to the ground.

            As Klieg smiled down at him there, Isabella breathed deeply and tried to convince herself that she was right. What she was going to do needed to be done. Even if _he_ didn't want it. 

            Maybe _especially_ because.

**

            Vimes was annoyed because the stitch in his side wasn't going away, he was breathing too hard, his left knee hurt and he didn't have time for his body to let him down. Ten minutes running and he was about to fall over. It wasn't like the old days.

            They'd cut up Cheapside to Filigree and were still running.

            "The Palace, right?" Vimes shouted at Pefka, who was twenty feet ahead of him.

            Instead of answering, Pefka launched himself into the air.

**

            Klieg squatted down in front of him, smiling at the blood on his face. She seemed to be considering her next move. The Patrician's eyes were open but he wasn't doing much more than catching his breath. Isabella stooped and touched his cheek. 

            "How veak he is," said Klieg with disgust.

            Isabella looked at him there, limp against the wall, his face bruised and bleeding, his breaths laboured. Despite everything, she was his wife with heart and mind and – who knows? – maybe even soul, and she didn't like to see him down. 

            She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and said, "You drink warm blood from the living, don't you?" 

            "Varm, yes. It must be varm. Ozers have told me he is cold-blooded. Ve shall see."

            Isabella gave Vetinari an apologetic smile, then went to the center of the tower platform.

            "My blood also? It must be warm?"

            The Patrician was suddenly on his feet and moving toward her but she had a head start. She ran and without hesitation leapt over the edge of the tower. 

            Klieg let out a surprised cry and jumped into the air. She careened down just as Vetinari skidded to the edge and saw Isabella falling, her skirts billowing up around her. 

            After a fast drop, Klieg swooped around and grasped Isabella round the waist and shot straight up into the sky, up past Vetinari, past the Rimward Tower.  

            They finally hovered, the city spread out below like a greeting card, like one of Isabella's maps, sparkling with light, sprawling, crawling with life. For a moment Isabella forgot why she was up there. She'd never seen the city from that vantage point. Imagined, yes. But never expected to see it with her own eyes. 

            "You zink it beautiful?" asked Klieg. "It is interesting but it is ugly, Ankh-Morpork."

            Her words snapped Isabella back to her task. 

            "What do you intend to do now?"

            "Vill you put your head on my shoulder?"

            "Will you drop me if I let go of you?"

            "I vill never drop you."

            Isabella looked down at the tower and could see the small black figure of Havelock Vetinari looking up at them. She had the urge to wave, to call out how amazing the view was up there, but it was foolish and she knew it. Instead, she put her head on Klieg's shoulder. 

            Klieg breathed in deeply, taking up Isabella's scent and swallowing it like a smoker does the cloud from a cigarette, exhaling only after letting it careen through her lungs and back up and out. 

            With some difficulty, Isabella untied the scarf around her neck one-handed. And used it to grasp Dibbler's stake, which she'd strapped to her leg before going out to follow the Patrician. She drew out a wooden hammer she'd entangled into a stocking garter, and in one quick second had the stake at Klieg's chest. She swung the hammer as hard as she could. It impacted, then slipped from her fingers and tumbled down out of sight.  

            The start was made, though. The tip of the stake went in, not deep, but there was blood and Isabella embraced Klieg tightly and the stake went deeper before it shattered into splinters.

            There was no scream from Klieg, only a startled intake of breath and a flash of fury in her eyes and then…weakness. Isabella pushed herself away, Klieg tried to scrabble to reach her, changed her mind and pulled at the stake. Finally, she got it out and dropped it and put her hand over the blood and closed her eyes. She fell. 

            Isabella was falling too, didn't notice when she passed the tower and the Patrician bracing himself at the edge of the platform, his attention snapping from her back to the sky. He was ready for Klieg. 

            Isabella had the peculiar sensation that she would die -- if she wasn't already dead, that is -- and that she wouldn't want to be found with her skirt up around her head. She tried to push it down as she fell. It billowed out around her despite her efforts, but she at least had the satisfaction of knowing that her garters weren't showing when Pefka caught her.

**

            There was a regular shuttle running between the ground and the tower. Pefka was the means of transport. He carried Vimes up first, then Angua and several other watchmen. They crowded around Klieg, who lay bleeding and senseless on the stone. At Vetinari's order, her arms, feet and – a surprise to Vimes – mouth were bound. 

            There were many ways to kill a vampire but there were even more ways to wound one. By the rattling sound of Klieg's breathing, the stake had pierced a lung. It was a serious wound, but one a vampire would live through, unlike the cutting off of a limb, exposure to various religious shapes, consumption of tzatziki or any other garlic-intensive foods, the drinking of certain acids, sunlight, starvation and so on. Still, the Patrician ordered Vimes to get an Igor to patch Klieg up. Vimes sent Pefka, who was becoming a useful extension of the City Watch.

            After landing safely, Isabella had walked calmly to the wall, leaned against it for a moment, then slid slowly to the ground. Angua looked her over and informed the Patrician that she was fine. In general. Except for having just nearly fallen fifteen plus stories to her death. Twice. Even if she was already dead, it was certainly a frightening experience.

            The Patrician opened the secret passage and directed the watchmen to take Klieg to the palace dungeon. Once they were gone, Vetinari, Vimes and Isabella were the only ones left. 

            "You don't look good, sir," said Vimes.

            The Patrician touched the corner of his mouth and looked with interest at the blood on his fingers. 

            "It's all superficial, commander. Thank you for your concern. I would like to congratulate you on your excellent timing." 

            "Flattery isn't going to work. I still want to know what the hell that vampire was doing here."

            "Her name is Klieg. She has an interest in Miss Capelli." The Patrician looked down at Isabella. She was watching them in a dazed sort of way. She looked like she couldn't move if she wanted to.

            "The same interest as Pefka?" asked Vimes.

            "Explain." 

            After Vimes told him what happened at Pseudopolis Yard, Vetinari said, "Such valuable blood. How…interesting." 

            "Disgusting, more like."

            "We can't blame a creature for being what it is, can we?"

            "We could say the same about this Klieg, sir." Vimes surveyed the patches of blood on the floor of the tower. "Interesting you wanted her gagged. She must have some things to say."

            "Indeed. And she may say them when I wish it." 

            The Patrician stooped in front of Isabella. Klieg's blood had made a mess of the front of her gown. Small splinters were stuck in the fabric like a dusting of pencil shavings. 

            "Don't scold me, Havelock," she said weakly, "I couldn't just let--"

            He took her up into his arms and held her so tightly that it was hard for her to adjust her nose and mouth to get a bit of air in.

            Vimes had the embarrassing three's a crowd feeling. There was work to be done somewhere, paperwork or something. He began to move quietly toward the entrance to the secret passage.

            Lord Vetinari lifted his face out of Isabella's hair.

            "In my office in ten minutes, commander."

            Vimes left them huddled at the edge of the tower.

            It wasn't a scolding, exactly, though Lord Vetinari's voice was unnecessarily severe in Isabella's view. He reminded her that there were certain topics about which curious Commander Vimes didn't need to hear. On the issue of her attempt to single-handedly execute Klieg, he called her a damned fool, in those very words, because the vampire, daughter or not, was apparently valuable to Margolotta and nothing of value should be destroyed unless absolutely necessary. Or at least until its usefulness has been exhausted. Isabella didn't have the energy to argue. Being vampire bait -- and she had no doubt that's what the Patrician had intended – had taken a lot out of her.

            After he helped her down the secret passageway and deposited her in a bedroom, he seemed to relax. He looked her over himself to be sure she really hadn't been injured, and once he was satisfied, he took her by the shoulders as if he intended to shake her.

            "Be more mindful of your physical safety," he said. "There is a limit to the number of times I can watch you die."

            In the Oblong Office, Vimes smelled that something had been burned not long ago. The Patrician rarely started fires in  winter, much less in late summer. Out of professional curiosity, he wandered over to the grate and tipped the ashes around with his boot.

            "Ah, commander," said Vetinari as soon as he entered the office. He was wiping his face with a towel. "What did you find at Klieg's base?"

            "Nothing but a coffin and a hole to the old sewers, sir. Did you find something when you were there?"

            "I never said I was there." 

            The Patrician eased himself into his chair as if his muscles ached.

            "I'll check the almanac to see how the weather'll be tomorrow," said Vimes. He chewed his cigar with satisfaction. "I hope the sun is shining. It'll be good for the public to see the killer's really dead. Again. For good. No more murders and all of that. The Black Ribboners ought to be relieved to see it too. I reckon we should--"

            "There will be no public execution, commander. You know what I think of those."

            Vimes knew the Patrician ordered public executions only when it was useful to inform the public that a certain evil-doer had, in fact, been brought to justice. Unlike his predecessors, Vetinari rarely ordered executions to begin with; they were mainly reserved for traitors (who were rare) and persistent murderers, the ones who kept going after they'd been told to stop. A killer like this vampire, though, seven victims in a week, that, as far as Vimes was concerned, warranted a bit of a show. 

            He didn't like public executions either, but he disliked psychopathic blood-sucking vampires even more.

            "There's been a lot of bad feeling around," he said. "Maybe that'd ease up if people saw the murderer was--"

            "I have other plans for her."

            "She killed seven people!"

            The Patrician dipped a quill and began to write rapidly on a blank sheet of paper.

            "There were extenuating circumstances."

            "There were _what_?" 

            Vimes had to replay the conversation over in his mind to believe he'd been hearing right. "No circumstances should excuse a serial killer from getting what's coming to her."

            The Patrician glanced up. For a second he looked… Not angry. There was so much more to it than that. Furious didn't do him justice. It was a look that was so far beyond simple fury that Vimes found himself fighting with the impulse to take a cautious step away from the desk.

            It was short lived. A brief second later, Lord Vetinari regained his bland expression. 

            "The suspect has been caught, Sir Samuel, thanks in part to the brave work of the City Watch and, I might add, a vampire who shows all of the hallmarks of true civic virtue. These _positive_ aspects of the case should be made public. There will be rewards all around, perhaps a bit of a wage increase for the men, a citation for Mr. Pefka…"

            "You can't be serious!"

            The look on Vetinari's face begged to differ. The bruises made it worse.

            "The Watch has done its duty," he said sternly. "The judicial arm must take over now." He raised his right arm. "This happens to be it. Have no fear; Klieg will be dealt with."

            There was a finality to the way he said it.

            "So long as people know you can't go around using the city as a feeding dish," Vimes grumbled.

            "That will be discouraged in future. Do pass on my thanks to your team."


	18. Kindred Spirit

** Questions, questions, questions from all of you…and answers coming right up. You're in the home stretch now, so hang in there. **

18. Kindred Spirit

            Days passed in a flurry of messages between Ankh-Morpork and a certain clacks tower in Uberwald. The day after the capture of Klieg, Lord Vetinari was in a foul mood. The second day he was merely thoughtful. By the third he was nearly back to his old inscrutable self.

            When Klieg regained consciousness on the second day she was fed steak tartar. She spat it up and tried to break the shackles around her ankles. She was still too weak. The gag was in use at all times except meals.        

            Isabella was quick to get her promise to Pefka out of the way, a cup of fresh blood which he drank slowly, like a gourmet, his face reddening as he went, his fingers trembling until he fell out of his chair and lay senseless on the floor for several minutes. When he awakened he begged Isabella to consider, just consider, an arrangement with him. A whole cup was too much, but drops…drops would be enough. In exchange he could offer all manner of _services_, for whose quality several well-born ladies would vouch. She refused.

            The Patrician worked all day and well into the evening but after dinner he and Isabella found a quiet corner and talked. He talked about Uberwald and Margolotta in great detail; it was the first time he'd told any of it to anyone. He repeatedly used the term kindred spirit.

"It is possible to meet someone who helps us to become who we fundamentally are, or to test our idea of what that is, just as an armourer must temper iron in the fire before it gains its real strength," he said. "When I was a young man, I needed this testing. Margolotta provided it."

Isabella didn't mention that he'd done the same for her. 

            When the conversation shifted to Vetinari's version of his time fifteen years ago with Isabella, he told her what he'd said to Vimes and Leonard, but refrained from adding any more details. In return, Isabella became evasive if the talk turned to marriage. The Patrician didn't push her. 

            During the day she occupied her time doing drawings of whatever struck her. Crumbled and overgrown parts of the city walls, the old viaduct in Water Street. Once or twice Lord Vetinari made a request. She was out completing a sketch of a spice warehouse built in the Klatchian style when Lady Margolotta arrived in Ankh-Morpork.

            By coach. Vampires flying in was rather gauche, and frankly, unnecessary what with the advances in coach axles and shock absorption. The ride from Uberwald was almost what one might call comfortable and at least Margolotta could bring her own bed, a sleek black coffin strapped to the roof and covered with a tarp.

            Pro forma she went to the embassy first. Three hours later, Lord Vetinari was bending over her hand in an otherwise empty reception room at the Palace. Though his injuries made it slightly painful, he was smiling. He couldn't help it. 

            "Welcome, milady."

            "So there you are at last." She surveyed the healing bruises on his face. "Lavinia vas not kind to you."

            "It's nothing compared to what she did to others."

            For a few moments they said nothing, merely gazed at each other. It was an examination of faces and registering of the changes the years had made, much like Vetinari had done with Isabella. In the end, he concluded that Margolotta had changed very little. Dark hair streaked with gray, delicate hands, a mouth always on the edge of a wry smile – they were the same. Despite her smoking habit she'd gained a bit of weight since she ended the all-human blood diet. She'd abandoned the narrow vampirish gowns she'd worn when Vetinari was, in these matters, little more than an impressionable boy. She now wore a sensible tweed skirt and matching waist jacket. She wore pearls and flat shoes and little bat-shaped earrings with tiny pearl eyes. She could have been a wealthy and stylish middle-aged head of a girls finishing school.

            They smiled at each other, and then, as if there had been an unspoken signal, the smiles faded.

            "I vould very much like to reminisce vith you but I think it vould be vise to talk to Lavinia first," she said. "How is she?"

            "Furious."

            "I guarantee she is not half as furious as I am. Please lead the vay."

            Klieg was not in the usual dank stone dungeon cell. She was in a dank iron dungeon cell, one built centuries ago by the enterprising Patrician called Loomis the Roaster, who wanted an entire room capable of roasting political enemies by laying a fire in the space under the iron floor. Lord Vetinari had never used it. The place wasn't sound proof.

            They found Klieg sitting up on her iron bunk, reading. The guards had allowed her to keep her copy of the "Vampire's Guide to Ankh-Morpork." 

            At the sight of Margolotta, she pointed at Vetinari and made grunting noises through the gag in her mouth.

            Margolotta raised a questioning brow at Vetinari, who nodded. She undid the gag.

            "I am not impressed, milady," said Klieg. "He fought badly. I zought he vould at least try to hurt me. Only his vife-not-vife had ze courage!"

            Margolotta sighed. "There are many vays to fight, Lavinia. I've told you that many times."

            "But he…"

            The Patrician slipped out the door, slipped around the corner and slipped into a nice spot for eavesdropping. It was where Loomis the Roaster liked to listen to the roasting going on inside the room. Unfortunately there was no viewing window. The Patrician listened.

            "…and he is gullible," Klieg was saying. "I lie to him and he believes me. Did he see anyzing of you in me? Anyzing of him? Did it matter? He heard only a little lie and he believed. He should have killed me but he let me go." She smirked.

            "You should think about vhich vun of you is vearing shackles right now," said Margolotta.

            "Isabella protected him. She vas strong vhen he vas veak." Klieg drew a deep breath. "Ah…she smells so lovely, milady. Vait until you meet her."

            "I vonder who told you the Black Ribboners in Ankh-Morpork vould revolt. It vas a gross miscalculation on your part. I thought I taught you better than that."

            There was a pause.

            "Do not base your plans on the co-operation of the enemy, Lavinia. I taught you that too, didn't I?"

            "Yes, milady, but--"     

            "I taught you the vays of abstinence and the beauty of self-denial and vhen you failed you thought the reversal vould be permanent. Vhy couldn't you have tried again? Ve are all tempted but ve channel it into other areas. You know that. I vould have helped you again. Don't you believe that?"

            Another pause.

            "Yes, milady."

            "Yes. You believe it and yet you chose to vork against me."

            "I vill not deny myself anymore, milady. I am a vampire. I know vhat zat means."

            They began talking at once.

            "You still have no vision, Lavinia. The integration of vampires into the greater society can only happen if ve…"

            "Zere are no Blacks and Reds, zhere are only vampires and ve are all Red!"

            "…and the only vay to come out of the shadows and the cocoon of our castles and take control of our environment is to…"

            "Eat tomato soup and have sing songs?"

            "…_refocus_ the natural craving into rational, organized action. Ve can…"

            "Vhy rational? Ve are not rational. Ve are vampires! Should ve deny our passion for ze chance to rule a piece of land? Vhy do ve have to change for zat? Vhy can't ve be vhat ve are?"

            "…be a _community_ and not just predators alone on the hunt, controlled by our appetites instead of…"

            "Milady, VHY ARE YOU ASHAMED?"

            They fell silent.

            Lord Vetinari heard footsteps but not the rattle of chains. He assumed it was Margolotta pacing.

            "Do you understand at least that I vould not have given up this course even for an eternity vith him?" she said. "If you had brought him to Ubervald I vould not have consumed vun drop of his blood. I vould have apologized for your rudeness and sent him back. I vould have continued my vork. Vun drop is too many. You know that, don't you?"

            There was a long silence. Then footsteps again, the shifting of chains and a deep sigh.

            "Vhat shall I do vith you, my girl?" The words sounded muffled, as if Margolotta said them through cloth or hair. Lord Vetinari concluded she was embracing Klieg. "Do you vant to be saved, Lavinia?"

            "I do not need it, milady."

            "Proud to the end, hm?" There was another sigh, a long silence, then the soft sound of a kiss. Then the scrape of shoes on the iron again. "A foolish thing. Love. I am just foolish enough to talk to Havelock Vetinari to see if he is villing to spare you. The cost may be high."

**        

            Several things weren't sitting well with Sam Vimes.

            First, that the vampire Klieg was recuperating in the palace dungeon a week after her capture without answering yet for the murders.

            Second, that Lady Margolotta von Uberwald had spent the last few nights at the Palace in what his Palace sources (i.e. a few servants) called "intense negotiations" with the Patrician. Vimes wasn't a fool. He could put two and two together. Margolotta was negotiating for Klieg's freedom and the Patrician was hammering out a deal of some kind. As if any deal could bring justice to the families of the dead.

            Third, that Nobby Nobbs had decided to volunteer some information without getting paid for it.

            "All right, Nobby. What do you have?" 

            They were up in Vimes' office at Pseudopolis Yard on a hot August day. People were actually swimming in the Ankh to keep cool. Or at least cutting comfortable little holes in the slow-moving sludge for a bit of a midday wallow.

            Corporal Nobbs shifted around in his seat. 

            "Can I ask something first, sir?"

            Vimes nodded.

            "Don't get piqued at me for me not remembering this earlier." Nobby tapped his head. "The vampire business was gettin' to me, you know? I wasn't exactly concentratin' on other things."

            Vimes leaned forward, his elbows on his desk.

            "Spit it out, Nobby."

            "You promise you won't get cross?"

            "Nobby…"

            "It's just that…it's not like anybody _cared_ there were crossbow bolts in the wreckage. I dumped 'em just like everything else."

            Vimes sat bolt upright in his chair. His mind spun back fifteen years to the carriage accident on Pseudopolis Road. Crossbow bolts? He didn't remember any crossbow bolts. But back then, he'd just begun his love affair with whiskey and had had a hard time remembering his address.

            "You sure, Nobby? Absolutely sure?"

            "Found one all in where the carriage wheel was spun off. You remember? That wheel was a piece away from the tree where the carriage went…" Nobby loudly smacked his hands together. "I remember that. And there was another one too but it was up the way a bit. Up the road."

            "There were two crossbow bolts at the scene. Just two?"

            "Far as I could count, yeah. Maybe there was more under the snow but it's not like I was lookin' for 'em."

            "Lying bastard!" shouted Vimes.

            Nobby jumped in his chair.

            "Not you, Nobby. You haven't talked to anyone else about this, have you?"

            "Just Fred. He said he remembered the bolts too."

            "Go tell him not to mention it to anybody else. You don't either, right?"

            Vimes was shaking his head. He'd fallen for it. The sob story of Isabella refusing to marry Vetinari and going off to Pseudopolis by choice. A victim of a tragic accident. Sure, there was highway robbery on many of the country roads back then but never so close to the city. Besides, no highwaymen murdered if they didn't have to, and they certainly never carried away the victims afterward.

            Problem was, Vimes didn't know what to do about all this. There weren't any files. There was no record the accident ever happened. There weren't any witnesses. All he had was the conviction – grounded in the old copper's gut -- that Lord Vetinari had something to do with crossbow bolts being shot at the carriage of his girlfriend (or whoever she was at the time) just when she was trying to get out of the city. 

            And the bastard had used sympathy to get Vimes off the trail. That was the worst of it. Well, that he'd fallen for it. _That_ was the worst. 

            He leaned back in his chair and chewed his cigar angrily and considered what he could do to get at the truth.

**

            Chimes.

            One, two, three.

            The darkness outside signalled that the three in this case was in the morning.

            When a hand reached out of the dark and gently shook Isabella's shoulder in her bed she woke instantly despite the early hour. She slept only fitfully anyway, never deep, never satisfying. Her dreams were vivid and starred her children. Ten times a night she awakened and ten times she wondered where she was. The iconograph under her pillow told her the truth.

            There was no candle, no light whatsoever. Only a voice.

            "I'm sorry to disturb you."

            The Patrician's voice.

            She sat up.

            "What's happened?"

            "Lady Margolotta wishes to meet you. It is a request. You may refuse if you wish."

            "What time is it?"

            "Early. A prudent time to leave the city."

            Isabella reached out blindly in the darkness and snagged his hand. He had her dressing gown. 

            In the hallway she caught her reflection in a mirror and frowned at the wild mass of her hair but the Patrician refused to let her go back for a brush. Time was of the essence.

            When she stepped into the little chamber near the door to the hubwards courtyard, Vetinari stayed outside. He had already said all he wanted to Margolotta. For now. 

            Half of their negotiations had been reminiscing about the few intense weeks they'd spent together in his youth. And a good deal was about what happened soon after he left Uberwald. A child had appeared in Margolotta's life, a girl whose family had apparently been extinguished in a highway robbery in a snowy mountain pass. The little thing had stumbled up to Margolotta's castle thin, frozen, hungry. For food. She was human then. There was a time when a 3-year-old girl was a delicacy to Margolotta but she'd already begun, after Vetinari left, to think hard about her appetites. Besides, it was something of a miracle that the child had survived the forest, snow, cold and wolves.

            The girl was given a vampire name and was raised as something of a daughter and, secretly, as a test of Margolotta's restraint. The isolation of the castle meant that only an Igor or two knew about the little Lavinia. Margolotta told no one about her. Visitors didn't see her until quite a bit later when she was older and educated and angry enough to go out and find a vampire who would convert her to the species of Milady against Milady's wishes. She lived that life until Margolotta convinced her to make the Great Experiment with her. Abstinence. It worked until six months ago when Lavinia succumbed to temptation and chose to leave Margolotta's castle to decide what she wanted to do. What side she really wished to be on, Red or Black.

            In the hubwards chamber at the Palace, Lady Margolotta was alone. She didn't say anything at first, only stared at Isabella and breathed slowly, her face flushed. She fumbled around in her jacket pocket for her cigarette holder and finally got everything in order, Black Scopani, fire, smoke. She inhaled the fumes with relief.

            "Lavinia didn't exaggerate," she said. "Pardon my habit." She attempted to wave the smoke out of Isabella's general direction. "I am sorry to have Lord Vetinari drag you out of your bed, but I did vant to meet you. Your story is fascinating."

            "I'd think so too if it was happening to someone else."

            "Of course." 

            The smoke swirled around the little room. Isabella tried to hold her breath.

            "Ve must leave qvite soon so I vill skip the small talk. May I ask you a rather personal qvestion?"

            Isabella nodded.

            "Vhat is it like to be married to him?"

            At first Isabella wanted to give a pat answer, a "fine," some sort of signal that she wasn't going to talk about that kind of thing with her. But there was a moment of lines crossing, this world, the one Isabella knew with her husband and children, the one where Lady Margolotta was a correspondent of 13 years. Friendship of a sort, long distance. That had been half the shock she'd felt at reading the coded clacks message. The possibility that Margolotta had exchanged letters with her for years without mentioning she was raising her husband's child. Lavinia had lied, but that didn't mean that perhaps it wasn't a lie in the world Isabella knew. She was still uneasy about that.

            "You need not answer," said Margolotta. "I vas merely curious."         

            "It's all right. I'd be curious too if I were you. I suppose being married to him is," she shrugged, "lonely."

            "Vas it alvays so?"

            Isabella loosened her dressing gown and pointed at just below her right shoulder, looked down, startled, and pointed to her left shoulder, where the gonne scar was. 

            "I was shot first, actually. I never got a plausible answer why Dr. Cruces would target both of us, but that's how it happened. After I was shot, Havelock was leaning over me and I remember the look on his face so clearly; I never thought he was capable of showing that kind of shock and fear. It was real terror. I don't know that he'd ever experienced anything like it before. I blacked out right before the next shot hit him."

            She tightened the sash of her dressing gown again.

            "That was the last time we went out in the same carriage or showed ourselves together in public. Two years ago. Then there was the poisoning last year. Since then we've rarely eaten meals together. We had separate bedrooms all along but I hardly ever slept in mine until Havelock fell sick and ordered me to stay out of his room. He's never allowed me to return. My office was moved to another part of the Palace and we started communicating mostly through clerks. Now the children see him only three times a week at scheduled times and when I want to see him alone I have to make an appointment." She spoke matter-of-factly, in the same tone she might have used to explain the structural problems in a building.

            "It is a natural reaction to vant to protect you."

            Margolotta let her cigarette burn without smoking it and listened intently to the silence. She didn't hear anything from where she'd directed her ear, to the other side of the chamber wall where they both knew the Patrician was listening. 

            "I asked him a month ago if he wanted a divorce," said Isabella. "Can you guess what he said? He said: 'Only if there's no alternative.'"

            "It sounds like he is looking for vun."

            "Not hard enough. It's taken too long already."

            Margolotta searched around for a place to drop her spent cigarette and settled for a potted plant in the corner.

            "Thank you for your frankness," she said. "I only knew him a short time, but long enough not to have expected you to tell me a happy story. I sincerely hope things change for the better," she paused, "vun vay or another. I vill look forward to hearing how the mystery is resolved. Oh, and I do apologize for the hair. Tasteless but necessary."

            "The hair?"

            Isabella would be the first to admit she wasn't looking her best at the moment but she didn't expect Margolotta to say anything about it. She patted her tangles.

            "No, no!" Margolotta reached into her jacket pocket for a small gold container that looked like a pill box. "Lord Vetinari didn't ask first? For shame!" 

            She pulled the lid off the box. Inside was a thick coil of dark hair.

            Isabella started combing her fingers through her hair looking for the part that had been cut. She thought she found it at the nape of her neck.

            "He didn't," she said flatly.

            "It vas part of our deal. You see, for some vampires there are vorse things than a final death. And the most effective tortures are subtle." Margolotta frowned as she closed up the box. "Lavinia vill learn to control herself. She vill learn denial. It is a part of her punishment. Believe me, it vill be much more effective than nailing her to the Deosil Gate."

            "What does Ankh-Morpork get in exchange for a bit of my hair and letting Lavinia go?"

            "For the next tventy years, the city vill not lack for certain natural resources over vhich I have some small control."

            "The families of the dead get nothing?"

            "Ve have made arrangements for them as vell. Deep down, his lordship is a decent sort."

            As Margolotta turned to go, Isabella grasped her arm.

            "What is the one thing that all rulers want?"

            "I vill tell you vhat it is not: Immortality. Some rulers may vish it but not _him_. He refused it vunce before. Lavinia knew that but didn't believe he vould refuse again now that he's experiencing the inconveniences of age." Margolotta nicked her head toward the chamber door. "Like him, you must vait for the answer. You vould have known a veek ago if it vasn't for some trouble on the roads. Alas, trouble is everyvhere, isn't it?"


	19. The Gift

19. The Gift

            Trouble, thy name is Vimes.

            After ranting to Sybil about Vetinari using a knife in the heart to throw him off the scent of the Pseudopolis Road accident, Vimes decided to go back to the beginning of his investigation. That is, to Mrs. Capelli. Weeks ago he'd asked the questions that were important at the moment but now there was a new set. A bit of snooping around the Merchants Guild and the Temple of Blind Io – which he knew the Patrician would find out about soon enough – had yielded a couple of interesting facts.

            It was late afternoon, and the windows in the Capelli house were open on the ground floor, where Mrs. Capelli spent most of her time. The upstairs rooms had been closed since the death of her husband and daughter. She sat Vimes in the dining room and fussed about for the china cups and cloth napkins.

            She cooked up the tea herself. Vimes didn't beat around the bush.

            "Can you tell me why you thought the carriage accident was political, Mrs. Capelli? Why specifically. We know it wasn't pleasant with Lord Snapcase but that didn't mean he went around causing random accidents." Vimes paused. Actually, Snapcase had gone around causing random bits of violence. That wasn't political, it was just madness. He let the question stand.

            "My dear departed husband spoke out against Snapcase in public, commander," she said. 

            Vimes knew that. The people at the Merchants Guild who remembered Marco Capelli were specific about his political views.

            "Who did he want as Patrician instead of Snapcase?"

            "He hadn't quite made up his mind when he passed on to the side of the Great Io."

            Out of habit, Vimes took out a cigar and popped it in his mouth. Mrs. Capelli shook her head and he set it politely next to the saucer.

            "Looks like you've been getting a respectable pension from the guild, ma'am," he said.

            "Marco worked very hard for them. He was proud to serve as secretary."

            "I found out something interesting when I was there the other day. Ten higher officers of the guild have retired or died in the past fifteen years and they're getting less of a pension than you are as the wife of a secretary."

            Mrs. Capelli frowned. "I don't know why that should be."

            "In fact, it looks like the annual donations you make to the Convent of the Sisters of Blind Io is more than what the last two Merchants Guild presidents' widows are getting as total pensions." Vimes tapped the dining room table. "Your income from the pension is less than the money you're giving out. There can't be much left over from the sale of the shipyards after your husband's death. It makes me wonder how you manage."

            "I live frugally, commander," said Mrs. Capelli. "And I don't worry about such worldly things as finances. There are higher thoughts. The Benevolent Io gives comfort to those who…"

            Vimes ignored the lecture and decided to make an effort to keep his voice nice and polite. Watch commander or not, Mrs. Capelli had the right to throw him out of her house.

            "Can I at least ask why you didn't mention before that Lord Vetinari wanted to marry your daughter?"

            She stopped her recital of the goodness and mercy of Io, a look of genuine surprise on her face.

            "That's not true. They hardly knew each other. He only wanted to--" She hesitated.

            Vimes leaned forward in his chair out of eagerness, than backed up so he wouldn't look _too_ eager.

            "Is Lord Vetinari paying you to be quiet about something?"

            "Money had nothing to do with it. It was generosity and decency. He only had my Isabella's good in mind." She started digging around in her apron for a handkerchief.

            "How so?" 

            "He wanted to pay for her to go to the Pseudopolis School of Architecture. He was very clear he should remain anonymous. Even after her death. True modesty, that was. We'd accepted his help because…we couldn't afford it on our own, commander, not even when both shipyards were running at full capacity. We didn't want everyone to know how hard it was for us."

            Vimes shook his head. "Lord Vetinari wouldn't do something like that out of the goodness of his heart."

            "Oh, but he did! Would have," she corrected herself. "Isabella sent him some drawings and he was impressed with her talent. He came to see us and offered to support her studies."

            "He didn't give a reason?"

            "He said talent like that shouldn't be denied opportunity."

            Deflated, Vimes sat back in his seat and tried to think. Things weren't adding up again. Mrs. Capelli and Mrs. Figgers sounded like they were talking about two different Vetinaris, one who hardly knew Isabella, another who was apparently in love with her. The Patrician had backed up Mrs. Figgers' take on the relationship, which should have been suspicious to begin with. The stories fit too well. But then, if all Vetinari had really wanted  was to act as Isabella's patron, why was he so anxious to keep it all a secret? 

            And there was still the question of crossbow bolts at the accident scene…

            "Did Lord Vetinari and your daughter meet regularly before the accident?"

            "Oh, no. Isabella didn't have much time for socializing. There was so much work to do at the Art School. Classes and assignments and lectures and Io only knows what. She was hardly ever home, she worked so hard, poor thing. Sometimes she wouldn't come home at all, but her instructors always sent us wonderful reports on her progress."

            Vimes slowly set down his tea cup.

            "When she didn't come home, you never wondered where she was?"

            "She stayed at the school. She said it was nice to trade ideas with the other students after the day's work was done. Sometimes there were evening classes too and it was easier for her to stay there afterward."

            "That's what she told you, that she stayed nights at school?"

            "It was only a few nights a week, commander. If she felt it necessary to stay there overnight, we trusted her judgement. She was always a very responsible young lady."

            And those were usually the ones who got away with murder, figuratively speaking, thought Vimes. Good girls used their reputations to their advantage, if they needed to. Who would ever entertain the thought that the hard-working, responsible, talented Isabella Capelli would lie to her own dear mother?

            "Lord Vetinari was at the funeral, wasn't he?" he asked.

            Mrs. Capelli nodded.

            "Do you remember if there was anything unusual about him?"

            "You can understand I was not paying too much attention to all of the guests…" She smiled sadly. "But I do remember what warmth it brought to my heart to see him show such genuine grief. He showed more sadness than half of our relatives."

            "He did?" This was not something Vimes could imagine. 

            "Oh, yes. He had a cold, but it seemed clear to me why he really needed his handkerchief." She nodded. "Such a warm, generous heart."

**

            At the Palace, Lord Vetinari would have very much liked to have Commander Vimes in his office _now_ for a nice discussion on why asking too many questions at the Merchants Guild, the Temple of Blind Io and Mrs. Capelli's was not, when you got right down to it, a sound professional move.

            What stopped him from sending Vimes a lightly veiled yet polite request to stop by for a chat was the Box.

            Four brawny men in hunter green carried the crate through a service entrance at the Palace and informed a servant that it was a gift from Lady Margolotta von Uberwald. They were ordered to carry it into a large store room. 

            Lord Vetinari showed up with Isabella and half a dozen Palace guards with crossbows. He doubted there was anything dangerous in the box but caution was never misplaced.

            "Sorry 'bout the wait, yer lordship," said one of the delivery men. He had a bulbous nose that looked like a red-spotted turnip. "Had a spot of trouble up in the mountains." He hocked into a handkerchief, excused himself, and held up a clipboard and a grubby pencil. "Could you sign here, sir?"

            Lord Vetinari held the pencil fastidiously as he scribbled his initials.

            "Righto. Enjoy your item or items, and we hope in future that you use Gork & Sons Trans-Uberwaldean Delivery Systems for your Uberwald-Ankh-Morpork transport needs. Here's my card, sir."

            Lord Vetinari took the card while touching the least amount of it possible.

            The man, Gork apparently, waved for what were apparently his sons, to clear off. He pulled a crowbar out of his overalls.

            "Want me to do the honours? Included in the service."

            "Gracious of you," said the Patrician. He took Isabella's arm and moved to a spot with a good view of the front of the crate.

            Gork inserted the crowbar and heaved. Nails whined. Wood groaned and split. The guards flipped the safety catches on their crossbows.

            The front of the crate fell forward and banged on the floor. There was straw. Yellow, dry, tangled straw packing the box. Gork and Sons began energetically pulling it out and tossing it every which way until three of them disappeared deep into the crate, whispered amongst each other, counted to three and started backing out.

            The crossbows were at the ready again. 

            There was the gleam of a little wheel. The shine of polished walnut. A flash of deep red velvet.

            Isabella put a hand over her mouth to dampen her laughter. 

            Lord Vetinari approached the item Gork and Sons deposited on the discarded straw. It was, without a doubt, a chair. It wasn't the most magnificent chair he'd ever seen; it wasn't a throne, but it rolled and swivelled and had a sturdy back and lots of padding on the seat. It looked comfortable and functional.

            He took the envelope pinned to the back and opened it. Isabella read over his elbow.

            _Your lordship, _

_            The strains of many years in office can show in the most unlikely of places. In ancient times, Emperor Shoi began secretly sitting on an encyclopaedia on his throne to hide the fact that his posture wasn't what it used to be. When King Taggery of Istanzia developed sores and a rather irritating itch in his nether regions, he had an extra thick saddle fashioned so he could continue his wars. Queen Nuth of Muntab had the excellent idea of carving a privy into her throne, making her bladder control problem less obvious to her subjects._

_            Though this last innovation is not a part of the gift I sent you, I did order the construction of a chair that would keep your posture straight and your softer bits nestled in velvet. All rulers, at some point, need an appropriate chair of office. May this one allow you many more years of ruling in comfort._

_            Sincerely,_

_            Lady Margolotta von Uberwald_

            "What will she send you for the 20th year of your rule?" asked Isabella. "An ear horn, nose hair clippers and a thick pair of reading glasses?"

            Lord Vetinari settled himself into the chair. It really was comfortable in those places where comfort mattered after ten straight hours seated at your desk reading through, say, the newest version of the city budget. He bounced a little on the cushion. Yes, it would do very well.

**

            The Artist Guild hadn't existed as such fifteen years ago but the Ankh-Morpork School of Art was ancient. It was said that it began in the loft of an eccentric nobleman with no artistic talent whatsoever but, like most patrons, the ability to see and fund it in others. He'd willed his whole house to the city's artists and that was where the guild and school were to this day. 

            Vimes sat in a small office on the second floor, a portfolio of Isabella's art work that her mother had given him on the table in front of him. Ulicious Huxter, M.F.A., P.D., peered down at it through his spectacles. With his bald, oblong head, he looked like a studious peanut. 

            "Yes, yes, yes. I remember her." He straightened up and gave Vimes a questioning look. "She died, I remember. Tragedy."

            "She was apparently working very hard in her courses here before she died."

            Huxter smirked. "Who told you that?" 

            Bullseye, thought Vimes.

            "Her mother."

            "Mothers. They know less about their children than they think, eh?" Huxter went to a cabinet and began rummaging around. "Miss Capelli was a promising student and she did work hard at first. She had to if she wanted to get into my courses. She came highly recommended by the other instructors. It surprised me that she lost interest after the first few sessions. Techniques of Perspective should have been right up her alley." 

            He pulled a slip of paper from the cabinet and handed it to Vimes. It was a bill for a tidy sum of money, stamped: paid.  

            "She hardly ever came to class but she paid up in advance," said Huxter, "the same tuition as a resident student though I don't believe she was often here at night or at meals."

            "Didn't you contact her parents about her absence?"

            Huxter looked offended. "Do I have time to be a babysitter? Art students are notorious for being broke, commander. They show up to class and conveniently forget to pay for it. The last thing any of us were going to do is complain about a student who doesn't show up but who pays. We gave her passing grades and glowing progress reports and let it be." He gave Vimes a shrewd look. "We may be artists, sir, but we aren't fools."

** Next the Patrician speaks! (And yes, he's going to give some answers….)**


	20. Confession

20. Confession

            The next morning, Lord Vetinari was especially polite to Vimes during the Watch meeting. He even invited the commander to the Palace later for drinks (non-alcoholic, of course) and a social chat.

            The Patrician chose as a stage for the evening the sitting room where the passage to the Rimward Tower began. It seemed appropriate now for any conversation relating to Isabella. Water, lemonade and tea were on the side board. An envelope was on the small game table between the chairs he and Isabella had sat in when they took the truth potion.

            Vimes arrived on time, not in his armour but still decked out as a watchman with short breeches and sandals and a not-quite clean shirt. It was a signal; he wasn't there as a knight or a duke and he wasn't exactly there as a watchman. He was something in between. Isabella had been found at his home and that was personal, but Lord Vetinari's cover up of the circumstances around her accident touched his professional side. 

            The Patrician chose to sit on the sofa. Vimes picked a chair near the fireplace, a convenient ash tray. He lit up a cigar. The Patrician raised his eyebrows in disapproval. Vimes inhaled deeply and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling.

            "I have to warn you, sir," he said. "I've got my bull detector on today. If you say anything that smells unpleasant I'm going to have to call you on it."

            "I will be sure to keep my words fragrant, Sir Samuel."

            There was a sharp knock on the door and Isabella came in looking worried. "The wizards want to try it tomorrow," she said.

            After much bickering, the wizards had finally decided there was no alternative but to contact Death. This did not sit well with Isabella. She had the feeling he was going to say some things she didn't want to know.

            "Have courage," said the Patrician. He waved for her to sit beside him. "Now that we are all together, we may begin this little journey into the past. I am curious, Sir Samuel, to hear what theory you've come up with after your investigation."

            "I want to hear it from you, sir."

            "Please humour me."

            Vimes smoked for a meditative moment and sorted through what he'd got from various quarters in the past few weeks. 

            "Right. Fifteen years ago, you and Miss Capelli met at the Merchants Guild. She must have mentioned her habit of drawing buildings around the city because she sent you some drawings afterward that got you interested in her talent. You started meeting regularly at your house. In secret. She told her parents she was doing Art School work. The instructors didn't say anything because she was paying so that was all right. Did you pay the extra tuition?"

            "Please continue, Sir Samuel. You're doing very well."

            "She did some kind of drawings for you out in the city, buildings and bridges and things at your request. She visited you often enough for the servants to get to know her but…you must have been discreet about things, even with them. I don't know that Mrs. Figgers lied. You might have encouraged her to think you were smitten all along." Vimes leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "This is where things get muddy. What you told me about a marriage proposal had sob story written all over it, but it looks like the cozy little working relationship really _did_ get cozy after all. Enough for Miss Capelli to stay overnight at your house a few times a week. Am I right?"

            Lord Vetinari smiled briefly but said nothing.

            "Then something happened that made you want her out of the city fast. I'm inclined to think it was political, maybe something to do with her father's opposition to Snapcase. Maybe someone at the Palace found out about your secret meetings with Marco Capelli's daughter and concluded it was part of some plot. Maybe someone threatened a scandal, though I doubt that; most lords do worse than carry on a secret romance with a young lady." Vimes tapped the ash of his cigar into the fireplace. "If it _was_ a romance. Whatever it was, you needed her gone and so you offered her parents a nice deal: you'll keep secret the financial problems the family was having and you'll pay for Miss Capelli to go to school in Pseudopolis as long as they keep their mouths shut about your patronage."

            The Patrician continued to listen with an air of intense interest. 

            "I'm missing a big piece here," said Vimes. "I don't know what went wrong. When Miss Capelli and her father left the city they were pursued by somebody who thought it a good idea to shoot at them with crossbows."

            Isabella glanced at the Patrician. His face was impassive.

            "Whoever it was, they tidied up the scene and maybe the driver helped them or he ran off before the rest of us got there. You showed up at the funeral grieving, according to Mrs. Capelli and Mrs. Figgers, who at least agree on something. It makes me think you had something to grieve about. You might've been acting, granted. But if you weren't, I reckon you either felt responsible for the deaths or you were grieving the loss of Miss Capelli. Or both."

            He smoked a bit, thinking, scouring his mind for any other pieces that he'd left out.

            "Mrs. Capelli's had her pension supplemented for years. You're either paying for her silence or trying to ease your guilt. Or both." Vimes sat back in his chair. "I think that's all I've got."

            The Patrician nodded, his hands folded calmly in his lap. "A very thorough job, Sir Samuel." He looked at Isabella. "Does any of this sound familiar?"

            She shook her head. "It's nothing like how things were with me. There was no secrecy at all. Until you became Patrician, I hardly ever visited you without my Aunt Gertrude as chaperone. I certainly never stayed with you overnight until we got married."

            "I never asked you to look at the bridges and the old treacle mines under the Shades?"

            There was a transformation on Isabella's face, as if she finally heard something she could latch onto, something that supported her memories. She leaned toward the Patrician.

            "He didn't really try it, did he?"

            Vetinari nodded, which wasn't enough of a response to get Vimes on the ball.

            "Who's he and what's it?" 

            "How far along did it get according to your memory?" Vetinari asked.

            "He was having surveys done when he choked to death on that cherry pit," she said. "We didn't know what he was planning until we looked through his files."

            "Right," said Vimes, holding his hands up. "Back up. _He_ is…"

            "Lord Snapcase."

            "And _it_ was…"

            "His plan to…renovate the Shades."

            "What do you mean, renovate?"

            "You do recall, Sir Samuel, that Lord Snapcase became quite mad later in his term," said the Patrician.

            "Crazy as a frog on a grill," said Vimes. "I thought it was all that snuff."

            "He was also, as we shouldn't forget, a man who loved his brocade breaches and velvet waistcoats. When I moved into the Palace I had to find a charitable way to dispose of his 200 wigs, 400 pairs of shoes and nearly 1,000 pairs of silk stockings. His appetite for the finer trappings of life left the treasury empty. It had to be replenished if he wished to continue to live in the matter to which he was accustomed. As a young man, I was of course not privy to all of the happenings at the Palace but I had my sources and I was informed of some puzzling activity on the part of Snapcase's agents in certain parts of the Shades. Surveys of certain buildings and streets, particularly along Treacle Mine Road and Elm, and detailed examinations of the Ankh Bridge and the Pearl Dock. My informants were not able to tell me why this was happening. I had to investigate myself." 

            Lord Vetinari turned to Isabella. 

            "I needed the help of someone with an eye for structural detail, someone who could interpret the landscape, examine what Snapcase's agents had and produce theories as to what he planned. An independent, preferably non-guild architect. I failed to find someone with the proper skill, imagination and discretion until I first saw your drawings. After a few meetings, it was clear that you were perfect for the job. It was only a matter of convincing you to do it." 

            Vimes tossed his stub of a cigar into the fireplace and lit a new one. 

            "A bit of bribery, a bit of seduction, eh?" he said.

            "You'd be amazed, Vimes." The Patrician smiled thinly. "It was useful to have the servants think it was an affair of the heart, which was to be the explanation for our activities if anyone else discovered the link between us. Which I doubted anyone would; I took quite a few precautions to prevent that. We worked for months before we hit on what Snapcase was really planning. It took us that long to realize it because it was a few steps too mad for us to contemplate."

            "What?" asked Vimes, leaning forward in his chair.

            "He wanted to expand the docks," said Isabella. "Snapcase could double the capacity for docking ships inside the city if he re-routed the Ankh so that a new arm of it flowed _through_ the Shades as a kind of deep water canal. The buildings along the route would have to be torn down and the layers of old building foundations and mines underground would have to be dug up to accommodate the freighters. He wanted to get rid of the Ankh Bridge completely to allow larger ships to travel up almost to the Misbegot and then widdershins onto the new canal. It would wrap around roughly to the Pearl Dock."

            Vimes had the Shades imprinted in his mind. He'd grown up there.

            "He was just going to cut a river through the Shades, through _my_ home, without asking anybody if they wanted to live under fifty feet of water?" 

            "There may be conditions under which such a thing is necessary, Vimes," said the Patrician.

            "There is not one bloody good reason to--"

            "But _this_ was not one of them. Not only was it an unnecessarily destructive plan, it was also a foolish one. It couldn't work. The mines and cellars that interconnect throughout the Shades would have flooded, leaving most of our more picturesque alleys and byways under water permanently. Snapcase knew that, but he was just mad and certainly greedy enough to approve the destruction anyway. Dock fees are quite lucrative, especially in winter, and more imports would bring in more tax. The project would have paid for itself in a few years and the profits afterward would have been immense."

            "Why didn't anybody know about this?" asked Vimes.

            "Someone did." The Patrician sighed and relaxed a little against the sofa, his gaze on Isabella. "I took every possible precaution to keep you from being discovered," he said. "Alas, someone was clever enough to see the pattern in your activities. Snapcase's agents acted quickly. The next time they found you on the outskirts of the Shades, they arranged a bit of a mugging. You turned out to be surprisingly handy with a drawing pad swung in fear and anger, and believe it or not, a few good citizens came to your aid. Chivalry was not dead in Ankh-Morpork."

            "How did you know it wasn't just a mugging?" asked Vimes. "The Thieves didn't control that sort of thing back then."

            "The gentlemen were thorough. They addressed her first by name. It was, of course, clear that you should leave the city for your own safety, Miss Capelli. It was imperative to get you out before Snapcase discovered why he couldn't get the Assassins Guild to put a contract on you. My quiet influence in the matter was not going to be sufficient for long. After a good deal of negotiation we agreed on the architecture school in Pseudopolis. Your father wished to go with you to help you settle in your new home."

            He paused.

            "I thought it prudent to go along myself to be sure you arrived safely."

            "Aaaaaah," said Vimes, his cigar bobbing in his mouth. "_You_ were driving the carriage."

            "I'm quite unrecognizable in an oversized muffler and a cloak with a cowl. It must be remembered that it was February, and this particular February was one of the worst in some years. The week before it had snowed every day but by _the_ day, the temperatures had dropped. An ice sheet covered the city. There was, however, no question of postponing the journey. I arrived at your house quite early and helped load the luggage as a driver was expected to do, and I helped you into the carriage."

            "I didn't recognize you?"

            "You were quite distracted. I believe you hoped that I would come to see you off and instead of looking at the man in front of you, you searched the streets for my carriage. But we'd said our good byes several days before and I had told you I wouldn't come."

            The Patrician laced his fingers together in his lap.

            "We were already at the edge of the city and turning onto the Pseudopolis Road when the carriage belonging to the opposition swung around behind us. Though I had advised the Capellis to prepare for the journey quietly, they told everyone how proud they were that their daughter was to attend such a prestigious school. They told anyone who would listen. Parents of an only child are like that, I've been told. Alas, the consequence was that anyone who wanted to know the particulars of the journey could get them easily despite the bits of disinformation I circulated as a counter measure. The moment the black carriage came up behind us, I saw no alternative but to get out onto the open road in hopes of two things: that Snapcase's men would be content with you leaving the city and, if not, that we could outrun them. The horses I had hired were champion thoroughbreds, by the way.      

            "We passed through the turnwise suburbs. The horses found the open road less trouble than the city cobbles so I quickened the pace. The pursuers did as well. At the half mile mark, the first crossbow bolt came. There was nothing to do now but call the horses to a run. The black carriage was drawn by two rather impressive white Klatchian Desert horses, adapted apparently to winter conditions. They gave chase. Your father leaned out the window and he very nearly caught a bolt for his foolishness. I attempted to halt the opposition by throwing knives at their horses, but to no avail."

            He shifted position, facing Isabella, an elbow on the back of the sofa. 

            "We were over the mile marker and moving fast over the snow. Our horses handled themselves beautifully but the pursuers gained ground. At the mile and a half there is a gentle curve turnwise in the road. A particularly zealous marksman among the pursuers chose that moment to shoot a bolt at the exposed left rear wheel of our carriage. The back axle collapsed. The horses panicked. They dragged us toward the curve near the ravine that slopes off at the two-mile mark from the road. They lost their footing when they tried to take the curve. Both went down. The carriage still had velocity, of course. It swung full into one of the lindens that lined the road. I was thrown over the side of the ravine and tumbled to a snow drift below."

            Vimes' cigar smouldered but he wasn't smoking it anymore. Isabella hugged a sofa cushion against her chest. 

            "I was stunned for a short time," the Patrician continued. "The snow of the past week saved my life; I have no illusions that a tumble down the ravine in any other season would have left me in a far worse condition than I was. By the time I'd climbed the ravine and could look out over the scene from behind the safety of a tree, I saw the carriage collapsed, crushed completely. The horses were both on the ground. Snapcase's men were going about their business in a quiet and efficient way. Marco Capelli had been transferred to their carriage already. They were carrying..."

            His voice changed, softer. "It was clear that there was no helping you," he said to Isabella. "If you were still alive, you wouldn't survive long. All I could do was watch them carry you into--"

            "You didn't _do_ anything?" cried Vimes. "You just sat there and let--"

            "There was no point, Sir Samuel."

            "If there was even the chance they were still alive maybe something could've been done."

            "I could have killed Snapcase's men. Quite easily, actually. I could have stolen their carriage and driven it to the Physicians Guild, which if the Capellis weren't already dead, would have certainly finished the job. Option two, I could have driven to the Capelli House to deposit the corpses of Mrs. Capelli's husband and daughter with my apologies. Third option: I could have remained in the road hoping a passerby would come soon enough to help without asking how the throats of Snapcase's men had been cut. Option four, in my weakened condition I could have slung the mangled body of Miss Capelli over my shoulder and walked two miles back to the city and hoped she lived through the ordeal long enough to die in the hands of a doctor."

            "It would've been something."

            "I have no doubt you would have acted differently, Vimes." 

            They both looked at Isabella as if she could give the verdict in the argument. She was studying the Patrician's face, trying to look back at the scene he was seeing in his mind. She couldn't remember it. She did know that perhaps a Vimes would have rushed Snapcase's men out of rage and desperation, but a Vetinari would assess the situation and act only if it served a purpose. 

            "If you say I was dead or dying, I believe you," she said. "It sounds like there's nothing you could have done."

            Vimes grumbled to himself.

            The Patrician left the sofa and began pacing slowly, his hands clasped behind his back.

            "It was useless to continue to freeze in my place. As Miss Capelli correctly concluded, there was nothing to be done. I climbed along the ravine as far as I could go and made my way back up onto the road and then home. By the time I was back in the city and could hail a cab I was in something of a state. Frozen to be sure. Perhaps there was some shock. It didn't help that it was necessary for appearances sake for me to climb into my own second floor bedroom window. The servants never knew I was out."

            "Mrs. Figgers and Mrs. Capelli both said you were ill," said Vimes.

            "A cold that turned into a flu of some sort, the worst of my life. I could attend the funeral only after consuming large amounts of whiskey and tea. But I owed it to Mrs. Capelli. My secret contributions to her pension over the years were small attempts to make up for what I'd done. The deaths of her husband and daughter were my responsibility."

            The Patrician straightened as if he was shaking himself out of a dream.

            "And so you see why I wished to keep this episode quiet. It was not my intention to sacrifice a talented young woman, especially when her work was a great service to the public good." He sat beside Isabella again. "Which it was. I was able to prevent the destruction of the Shades while assuring that Snapcase saw justice for his role in the tragedy."

            Within a few months of the accident, Lord Vetinari became the only person in history ever to assassinate two Patricians in a row by natural causes. Lord Winder died of a heart attack at the sight of a teenage Vetinari poised to inhume him. Lord Snapcase died of jumping out a Palace window. Vetinari hadn't so much as touched him. No weapons had been involved. It had been an opportunity for the young man to practice the type of _persuasion_ that would serve him well in his reign. Officially, Snapcase's suicide was chalked up to his madness. That was practically natural causes.

            Vetinari didn't tell them this. They drew their own conclusions. 

            "Assuming you're finally telling the truth," Vimes squinted suspiciously at the Patrician, "it's all explained. Except for that envelope there." He nodded at the table in front of them. 

            "I believe that's a matter for Miss Capelli and I," said the Patrician. "As delightful as it has been to include you in this evening's reminiscences, perhaps we could continue without you, Sir Samuel."

            "You could just say 'Get out, Vimes,'" he said, getting to his feet. "It's more efficient."

            "But not as polite." The Patrician smiled politely. "Good night."

            "Goodbye, commander," said Isabella. 

            Vimes left wondering vaguely why she'd said good bye instead of good night.


	21. What a Modern Patrician Needs

21. What a Modern Patrician Needs

            Isabella got up and walked around the room a little, a way to clear her head, to get the thoughts and memories tumbling inside sorted out. The Patrician stayed where he was, his gaze fixed on the envelope. It was thin, white and addressed to him in her handwriting. It had spent the last fifteen years between the pages of his journal in his secret library.

            She was running a hand over the smooth surface of the oak side board when she said, "Commander Vimes is either very tactful or he didn't catch the big implausibility in what you told us."

            Lord Vetinari picked up the envelope and turned it over in his hands. Isabella circled back to the sofa.

            "You came too," she said. "You drove the carriage."

            "Yes."

            "You would have never done that. After taking precautions to prevent someone from finding a solid link between us, you wouldn't have exposed yourself like that."

            He brushed his fingers over the letter's unbroken wax seal.

            Isabella paced to the fireplace. The tall white candles on both ends of the mantle burned without flickering. There was no draft in the room. The windows were closed. She went to open one, half expected Klieg to drop down from above, and closed it again.

            "Why did you expose yourself like that?" she asked.

            Lord Vetinari set the envelope back on the table.

            "I know you, Havelock. Guilt wouldn't be strong enough. Or your sense of decency and responsibility. You would have protected yourself first. Someone else could have gone on your behalf to be sure I was safe."     

            "Perhaps you underestimate my capacity for practising guilt, decency and responsibility."

            "I don't think so."

            He held a hand out to her and she looked at him questioningly before taking it and allowing him to pull her beside him onto the sofa. He handed her the letter.

            "Please open it," he said.

            She examined the seal. It was possible that it had been carefully peeled up and then melted again to reseal the letter, but she couldn't see any evidence of it. "Are you sure you want me to do this? You've held onto it this long."

            He waved a hand and sat back against the arm of the sofa to get a direct view of her face. 

            There was the soft sound of the wax being broken and the peeling back of the paper's folds. The Patrician stroked his beard as he watched Isabella read. Her forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. She glanced up at him, then back at the paper. 

            "Do you know what it says?"

            "I never opened it."

            "Can you guess?"

            Vetinari pursed his lips as if he was pondering a difficult question.

            "You have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right," she said.

            "Perhaps you could show it to me."

            There was one short word scrawled in large letters in the center of the page.

            _Yes_

            He nodded and folded the letter again. 

            "What a devil you are, Havelock. I've always thought that."

            He smiled.

            "You told Commander Vimes the truth and he didn't believe you."

            "It is always interesting to observe how his mind works. When he discovers that I've told a half truth, he assumes everything else was a lie. He must have a rather low opinion of me."

            "Did you get it before or after the accident?"

            "It was waiting for me when I got home that day. Such a quick answer was unexpected. I was quite sure if I offered you not only the Palace but the Ankh filled with liquid gold, you wouldn't give me an answer until you'd pondered all of the ramifications of being permanently attached to me." He waved the letter. "Obviously, you needed less time to decide than I thought."

            "I assume you'd planned to wait?"

            "A year or two, yes. Snapcase wasn't going to live forever. Especially after a well-meaning, anonymous citizen gave some of the more aggressive workingman's clubs of the Shades proof of what was intended for their home. The immediate danger to you would have passed while you studied for a time in Pseudopolis." 

            Frowning, Isabella plucked imaginary dust off her skirt. The Patrician creased the letter, smoothing the folds with his fingers.

            "Surely you aren't surprised that your husband and I would have the same idea." 

            "I suppose I shouldn't be." She shrugged. "It's a very sad story, you know."

            "Yes, though I've heard worse."

            "I'm sure. Some men have lost women they actually loved."

            The Patrician closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

            "I often forget what a real joy it is to talk to ladies," he sighed. "They do so love to _fish_."

            "I'm not fishing."

            "I'd like to remind you that some time ago, you said your husband did not marry you for your charms. There should be no reason for you to assume it would be different with me." 

            Isabella folded her arms.

            "Unless," he said, "I am not the only one who was not being altogether honest about the past."

            "I didn't think it mattered anymore, how things started."

            "You're quite right. _Why_ is usually the more interesting question." He looked at the letter again, though the contents obviously hadn't changed, then set it aside. "I think Lady Margolotta's riddle was amusing, but what all rulers want is hardly comparable to what a modern Patrician needs." He gestured toward Isabella. "A good civil engineer."

            "You've managed all right without one."

            "I would have managed better with. You will notice I never found one of sufficient quality to replace you." 

            A few days before the carriage crash, young Lord Vetinari had spoken to a younger Isabella Capelli for the last time. They were in the small garden behind the Capelli House, not much more than a patch of grass surrounded by a privacy hedge and accessible only from the house. It was twilight, the sky a dirty yellow, which was also the colour of the snow that lay a foot deep on the ground. New flakes were falling. Bundled up against the cold, Vetinari and Isabella strolled up and down the lawn, tramping trails in the snow, speaking quietly. They were aware that her parents were watching.

            "You've memorized the code?" he asked, the air steaming.

            She nodded.

            "And destroyed the key?"

            "Yes."

            He clasped his gloved fists behind his back. They reached one end of the garden, turned and began the march back.

            "Once a month is sufficient for progress reports," he said.

            "That won't be enough."

            "You may increase them after things calm down here."

            Isabella's hands were sunk inside a brown beaver fur muff. It matched her fur hat, which was so large she kept having to push it up from her eyes.

            "Please don't do anything risky, your lordship," she said.

            "I'm afraid it's too late for that."

            "Please don't," she lowered her voice to a whisper, "_inhume_ anyone." She had a disgusted look on her face.

            They had talked one night at length about the Assassins Guild, where he was educated. Isabella insisted that the one profession she couldn't stand was assassin. She'd take a thief before an assassin. She'd take a cop. Or a lawyer. Even a politician. The conversation had greatly amused Vetinari.

            "I have no plans in that direction, Miss Capelli," he said. "I made a promise and I will hold to it."

            The hat slid over Isabella's eyes. She pushed it back up with her muff.

            "Can I visit you when I come home on holiday?"

            "There will be some sort of communal tea with your parents."

            They reached a hedge and turned again. In the house, candles burned on the first floor. There was no sign of Isabella's parents peering out between the curtains, though they were there.

            "I'm not interested in communal tea," said Isabella.

            "When the danger from the Palace is past, perhaps we will come up with a plausible excuse to have you over on your own." He scratched his chin. It was clean shaven back then. "A mission of mercy to Wuffles, for instance. The poor thing misses you already."

            "Only Wuffles?" 

            "And the servants. Mrs. Figgers asks about you every day. I do hope she stops."

            A burst of cold wind eddied in the garden, causing Vetinari to turn up the collar of his black coat. Isabella blinked away the snowflakes the wind splattered in her eyes. When they reached a hedge, her hat slipped down again. Irritated, she pushed it back up.

            "After I'm out of the city, do you think they'll really leave me alone?" she asked.

            "I'm certain of it."

            "Why?" 

            "I will see to it."

            She shook her head. "You can't arrange everything, your lordship."

            "Arrange, no. Influence, yes." 

            Isabella's fur hat slid over her eyes again. Before she could do anything about it, Vetinari grasped her by the muff and pulled her to the one private place in the garden, a bower where a few pine trees shielded a patch of ground from the windows. By then, her nose was blocking the hat from sliding further over her face. He kept a hold of the muff but didn't do anything about the hat. A minute passed.

            "Your lordship."

            He was smiling.

            "Are you going to help me with my hat?"

            She heard it then, a very slight sound from him.

            "You're laughing at me, aren't you?"

            "Not at all."

            "This was my great Aunt Lucia's hat."

            "If cranial size is any measure of intelligence, your great Aunt Lucia must have been a genius."

            Isabella tried to shake the hat off her head in what she thought was a ladylike manner, but the effect was the hat sliding to the tip of her nose. It tickled some part of Vetinari's idiosyncratic sense of humour. He laughed openly.

            "This isn't funny," she said.

            "If I encounter a hide-less Uberwaldean beaver shivering with cold, I will direct him to Pseudopolis."

            Isabella grinned. "I'll never marry you," she said. "You're horribly insensitive."

            The beaver pelt over her eyes was an effective blind, and that was why the kiss took her by surprise. He'd never kissed her before. Those nights together at his house had been spent working or talking until Isabella fell asleep in a chair in front of the hearth with Wuffles on her lap. 

            He finally adjusted the hat. Isabella blinked up at him.

            "That was a nasty trick."

            "I don't believe I know any other kind." He straightened, serious again. "We've been hiding behind the pines long enough. Shall we?"

             By the time they reached the back door of the house, he was saying, "…and nothing less than perfect grades will do. Work hard, Miss Capelli. When your skills have developed, you will go from valuable to irreplaceable."

            At the Palace, Lord Vetinari watched Isabella get up and go to the side board. The memory was still clear in his mind, and her face was basically the same as it was back then. It carried the same expressions. She moved the same. It was the reason for the mix up in pronouns. He couldn't bring himself to talk about the Miss Capelli he knew as _she_, when the Miss Capelli pouring herself a lemonade at the side board was in the room. Only a _you_ made sense.

            It wasn't quite lemonade. The yellowish-orange contents of the pitcher clogged at the spout and made a soft flatulent sound when it dropped in a clotted mass into her cup. She held it up to her nose. It smelled of fruit set out in the sun too long.

            The Patrician joined her. "Leonard insisted you try his new fruit drink."

            "Have you tried it?"

            "Unfortunately."

            Isabella shook the cup. The contents glooped. She set it aside.

            "Please tell him I loved it."

            The Patrician poured two glasses of water, and raised his like he was about to give a toast. "Ah," he said suddenly, "I nearly forgot."

            From a fold of his robe he extricated a small gold wedding band. "I took the liberty of having it polished." 

            When he slipped it onto her finger, she stared at it for a long moment, then thanked him and moved to the window. She looked out over the rooftops of some of the guilds – the Assassins, Fools, Teachers – and beyond to the Merchants Guild house, where everything had started. Even without a public execution, the city had calmed since the vampire murderer had been caught. People simply assumed the Patrician had taken care of the situation. There was the assumption that scorpions in the Palace dungeon weren't picky about the species of victim thrown into their pit. Few people knew Klieg had left the city with Lady Margolotta.

            Isabella was relieved to have her ring back, but it reminded her of what was to come.

            "Would you like to hear a poem?" she said.

            "If I must."

            She frowned at her reflection in the window. Beside her, the Patrician looked out over the rooftops, a fist behind his back.

            "I of course meant to say: Yes, I would be delighted to hear a poem."

            She stayed silent. In the glass, he interpreted the look on her face.

            "There is no need to fear tomorrow. I will be there to make sure the wizards do not do anything foolish." He paused. "More foolish than usual. And Death is quite a reasonable chap, I've heard."

            "Death lies in our cots / in the lazy mattresses, the black blankets, / lives at full stretch and then suddenly blows, / blows sound unknown filling out the sheets / and there are beds sailing into a harbour / where Death is waiting, dressed as an admiral."

            The Patrician sighed and held out his arms. As he hugged her, he was a bit surprised by the fact that a woman who had staked a vampire serial murderer while hovering many hundreds of feet above the city would be so frightened about meeting Death. Now and then, Vetinari had considered how interesting it would be to have Death for tea. Surely it would be an interesting conversation. Tomorrow would also be interesting, though other potentially more accurate words came to mind – enlightening, unfortunate, bittersweet. Tragic, maybe.

            He gave her a last, encouraging squeeze and released her.

            "Will you sleep tonight?" 

            She sighed and shook her head. 

            "Then perhaps you could do me a large favour and look at the latest report on the Dragon's Landing Redevelopment Site. I suspect the chief engineer is underestimating the amount of earth and stone one of our strapping Ankh-Morpork builders can move in a day. His estimate of time and labour costs seem suspiciously high."

            There was a full minute of thoughtful silence.

            "If he's estimating more than four years and two million dollars, he's cheating you," said Isabella.

            The Patrician guided her toward the door. "I also have yet to see a convincing land use plan for the site."

            "Office space."

            "Of course, but at what _density_. That is the question."

            "What kind of proposals have you received?"

            They talked all the way to the Oblong Office, and at the suggestion of Isabella, they passed it and headed down to the Palace kitchens where they rummaged for bread, butter and cheese while discussing the pressing problems of land development. The Patrician put the kettle on.

            "I fear you will need some sort of sedative when you see what the architects have come up with," he sighed.

            "It has to be high density office space." 

            Isabella bit into a cheese sandwich and chewed, thoughts of Death sliding away under architectural schematics, something she could wrap her mind around. Something real. 

            "The future is in height, Havelock. Seven stories and up. The banks and guilds will be fighting for space on the upper floors – Can you imagine the view over the city? – It would be similar to what we have here, but no one else has it yet. We can give it to them. And then, here's the brilliant bit, we could _tax_ vertically too. Look, if we…" 

            She dropped the sandwich and looked around for a napkin. The Patrician held up a pencil he'd spirited from somewhere in his robe and paid close attention to which hand she took it with. She started drawing on the kitchen table as she talked. Lord Vetinari listened and asked questions and made comments and every now and then, he smiled at her.

**Ok…only one more chapter, two if I give you the epilogue, which I'm still debating with myself about. It'll be up soon!**


	22. The Secret Hope

** Margolotta's answer to the riddle what all rulers want was in the Gift chapter. Vetinari's version of the riddle and answer was in the What all Patricians Want chapter. And no, I wasn't going to leave you without an explanation of Isabella and the dress, the first and last mystery of the whole story. Here it is…**

22. The Secret Hope

            Death was not dressed as an admiral. He was wearing white. It made him look like an extremely tall and thin, elderly  man with a laurel wreath around his bald head and a healthy set of grinning white teeth. It wasn't even a robe like the black one he usually wore. It was more of a long toga in the Ephebian style. An end of it draped over his left arm. Left humerus. He was a skeleton, after all.

            He stood with one set of metatarsals and phalanges thrust forward out from under the hem of his toga.

             TO BE OR NOT TO BE…

            A bony finger punctured the air.

            THAT IS THE…

            And then he noticed the circle of gaping or, in the case of the Dean and the Archchancellor, smirking wizards that surrounded him.

            The bony finger descended.

            I LACK THE GLANDS TO HAVE REAL FEELINGS, BUT I DO HATE IT WHEN YOU DO THAT.

            "Sorry, sir," said Ponder Stibbons. 

            The Great Hall of Unseen University had been decked out for the occasion. The candles in the chandeliers overhead were lit. The marble floor was covered with wizardly symbols. Roast beef sandwiches were arrayed at the side board in case anybody got hungry later.

            The senior faculty, knobby staffs in hand, formed a magic circle and Death was the epicenter. Outside of the circle, the Patrician focused on the white figure that was several heads taller than the tallest wizard. Most people saw Death as a hazy form, normally because most people thought a grinning seven-foot tall skeleton with a scythe was either impossible or just plain scary. Vetinari was scared of very little and had learned in his years in office that nothing is impossible. To him, Death was crystal clear.

            Before the ceremony, Isabella had been bombarded by various magic spells the wizards nervously assured her were in no way damaging to her brain, circulatory system or sense of balance. If after the rite she forgot how to count to ten while having heart palpitations and the urge to fall over, that was pure coincidence.

            She stood in front of the Archchancellor and gaped at Death.

            He turned his flaming blue eyes to her.

            YOU LOOK FAMILIAR.

            Isabella paled.

            Bony toes clattered on the marble as Death stepped closer and peered down at her. Then he turned to the Archchancellor.

            SHE IS THE REASON YOU SUMMONED ME.

            "Yes, sir," said Ridcully. "We're in a bit of a fix, here. You see, she just showed up a while back and apparently, you'll laugh about this, sir, she's supposed to be deceased. Young Stibbons here thinks she's from another dimension or club sandwich or some such nonsense, but--"

            NO, SHE IS NOT.     

            "Didn't think so," smirked the Dean. He rolled his eyes at Ponder. "STUMs. Pah!"

            "She's Undead then, mystery solved," said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. "Roast beef anyone?"

            NO, SHE IS NOT UNDEAD.

            "You owe me ten dollars, Runes," said the Dean smuggly.

            The Chair of Indefinite Studies raised his hand while making excited "Oh! Oh!" noises like a schoolboy who would later be thumped in the yard by his fellows for his enthusiasm.

            "She never died!"

            CORRECT.

            The Chair looked pleased with himself. The Senior Wrangler patted him on the back.

            Ponder was shaking his head.

            "If she isn't from another dimension, where did the Dragon Gown come from? It couldn't have been lying around somewhere without somebody in the Disc's magic community noticing."

            Death swung his gaze back to Isabella. She shrank against the Archchancellor.

            WHO GAVE IT TO YOU?

            In her mind, the gown had been something of a reconciliation gift. The weeks before Sybil's ball had been more tense than usual for the Vetinaris. Once the word divorce had been spoken between them, cracks crept into her husband's composure. The coldness turned to low-level anger, then annoyance, and then, in the end, a kind of repentance. When he gave her the gown, it was the first time in six months they'd been alone without an appointment made beforehand.

            "My husband gave it to me," she whispered.

            Death nodded and looked off into space. AND HE RECEIVED IT FROM A DRESSMAKER WHO RECEIVED THE FABRIC FROM AN AGATEAN TEXTILE HANDLER WHO RECEIVED IT FROM A WEAVER WHO EXTRACTED THE THREADS FROM SILKWORMS RAISED IN THE MULBERRY TREES IN THE CLOISTER OF THE MONKS OF HISTORY.

            And then Death said: 

            _BUGGER_.

            This was not encouraging. The wizards flinched. The Archchancellor had to pry Isabella's fingers off his robe to keep her from ripping it.

            Outside the circle, the Patrician couldn't quite hear what was going on. He heard what the wizards said, but Death's voice was something like a deep echo in a faraway room. He saw the flinch, though, and concluded what anyone would who'd just seen six wizards cringe.

            Death adjusted his toga though it didn't make him look any more prepared for the business at hand. He didn't look serious in white.

            I WILL DISPOSE OF THE SILK. THE MONKS WILL BE TOLD TO GUARD THEIR WORMS BETTER IN FUTURE. THEY AREN'T MEANT TO WRIGGLE OUT INTO THE WORLD. PERHAPS SOME KIND OF CHICKEN WIRE FENCE AROUND THE MULBERRY TREES WOULD DO IT.

            He began to fade.

            "Wait!" cried Isabella. "What about me?"

            After a moment, Death solidified again.

            OH. YES. PARDON. 

            He held up a bony hand. An hour glass appeared. The frame was white marble shaped like two ionic columns. Sand trickled from the upper bulb, which was still half full.

            EVERYTHING SEEMS FINE HERE.

            "But she has memories of things that never happened here," said Ponder, "and she has a complex scent that even the undead have never experienced before." 

            OF COURSE SHE DOES.

            Death looked puzzled about the wizards' puzzlement. He tipped his skull to the side like a curious puppy. Then he snapped his finger bones.

            AH. I WILL EXPLAIN. 

            The hour glass disappeared. 

            I ASSUME YOU NOTICED THE GOWN CHANGING.

            "That's right," said Ridcully. "The dragon changed the way it faced."

            "And the colour," said Ponder. "It shimmered like glass and well, the octarine was so concentrated we could barely keep track."

            Death nodded.

            THE DRAGON DID NOT CHANGE ITS FACE, IT INVERTED ITSELF. THE COLOUR SHIMMERED NOT LIKE GLASS BUT LIKE _A_ GLASS: A MIRROR. AN INVERTED IMAGE IN A MIRROR IS A REFLECTION.

            He turned to Isabella.

            YOU PROBABLY NOTICED YOU'RE LEFT-HANDED NOW.

            She nodded. The scar from the gonne also sat opposite of where it should in her memory. 

            UNTIL THE SILK WAS WORN YOU DID NOT TECHNICALLY EXIST. YOU ARE A REFLECTION OF THE LADY WHO DID WEAR THE GOWN.

            Isabella stared at Death as if she hadn't heard him right.

            The wizards did a collective furrowing of shaggy white eyebrows, with the exception of Ponder. He excitedly took off his glasses and started polishing them on his robe. 

            "A glass reflects an inverted image that's basically the same as the original." He held up his glasses. The lenses didn't do much in the reflection department. The lighting in the hall was wrong. "I need a mirror!"

            The Senior Wrangler removed a small round compact from a pocket of his robe and passed it to Ponder, who opened it eagerly. There was a thin powder puff inside. Ridcully and the Dean exchanged glances.

            "It's my sister's," said the Senior Wrangler. "She asked me to hold it one day and I forgot about it." 

            "We will be discussing this later, Senior Wrangler," said the Archchancellor. 

            Ponder held the open compact at arm's length and pointed at his reflection in the little mirror. "If I look close enough at the reflection, I can see another one in its eyes, and if I could see even tinier, there'd be another. Images to infinity." He flashed the mirror at Isabella, who turned away from it quickly. "That must be why your scent was so interesting."

            The Patrician didn't like the sound of any of that. He stepped closer to the outer edge of the magic circle.

            "How could this happen?" asked Isabella. "All I did was put on the dress."

            NO, A VERSION OF YOU DID. AND SHE LOOKED AT HERSELF IN A MIRROR AND SAW _YOU_.

            "A reflection isn't real," said Ridcully. "But you just showed us her timer."

            Death tapped his foot in a show of impatience. 

            WHAT GOOD IS A MAGIC REFLECTION IF IT DOESN'T PROJECT ITSELF THROUGH SPACE AND TIME TO FIND A PLACE WHERE IT TOO CAN BECOME REAL? IT'S THE SECRET HOPE OF EVERY REFLECTION.

            Ponder hurriedly snapped the compact closed.

            "So if I'd really put on that gown," said the Senior Wrangler, "not that it would fit and not that I really _wanted_ to, mind you, but _if_ I had, another me would've popped up somewhere?"

            "If you looked in a mirror," said Ponder.

            "Without me knowing? I mean the original me, the me who first put on the gown." The Senior Wrangler noticed the stares of his colleagues. "This is all theoretical." 

            "I should hope so," said Ridcully. "We hardly want a version of you in face powder wearing a ladies dress running around where we can't keep an eye on you."

            THE ORIGINAL DOESN'T KNOW THE CONSEQUENCES OF ITS ACTIONS.

            Death turned to Isabella again. Despite having a grinning skull for a face, he managed to look like a creature with a bloody lot of work ahead of him.

            OTHER REFLECTIONS PROBABLY ENDED UP IN WORLDS IN WHICH AN ORIGINAL VERSION OF THEM ARE STILL AROUND. YOU CAN IMAGINE THE MESS IT'LL BE TO SORT THAT OUT. REFLECTIONS GET AGGRESSIVE WHEN CONFRONTED WITH AN ORIGINAL THAT CANCELS THEIR RIGHT TO EXIST.

            He brightened.

            THERE COULD BE CAT FIGHTS.

            The wizards did a round of silent brainstorming about the kind of spells needed to find the Isabellas in other worlds. They'd heard of cat fights. They involved females and fingernails and screeching and, if the spectators were lucky, more clothing torn than hair.

            Death sighed, a feat since he had no lungs or throat to speak of.

            MAYBE THE MONKS HAVE CAUGHT ONTO THEM ALREADY. YOU, ON THE OTHER HAND, ARE NO PROBLEM AT ALL. YOUR COUNTERPART IN THIS WORLD IS DEAD. YOU DISRUPT NOTHING BY REMAINING HERE.

            "But I don't want to stay here!" cried Isabella. "I have to go back to my family and work and--"

            I'M AFRAID YOU CAN'T GO BACK. YOU'RE ALREADY THERE, SO TO SPEAK. 

            "I don't belong here!"

            YOU DON'T BELONG WHERE YOU THINK YOU CAME FROM EITHER. 

            Isabella looked helplessly at the wizards. They avoided making eye contact.

            Death didn't have a heart but he could see that the human in front of him was distressed and could use a few positive words. Before he faded away again, he said, DON'T WORRY, YOU'LL GET USED TO IT. HUMANS ARE AMAZINGLY RESIILIENT.

            The laurel crown was the last thing that could be seen before Death disappeared completely.

            The wizards instantly relaxed. It wasn't because Death had been particularly scary or the magic had been difficult. They could sense that the Dragon Gown was no longer in the university cellar. In universes beyond count, shimmering Dragon Gowns disappeared from wardrobes, boxes and, in one case, from an Isabella who was dancing at an embassy ball. The wizards might have enjoyed a peek at that world too. 

            Isabella stared at the spot where Death had been. Her face looked like it had been carved out of a block of ice.

            Ridcully cleared his throat. "That didn't go as well as we'd hoped."

            "I know."

            "I don't think there's anything else we can do," said Ponder. "It's true; there can't be two of you anywhere. Not permanently, anyway. If we tried to send you back somehow, it would wreak havoc on the--" 

            "You're not helping, Mr. Stibbons," said Ridcully.

            The Dean patted Isabella's shoulder in a hesitant fashion. "At least it won't be like moving to a different country. Everything's practically the same, eh? The weather's like it always was and you don't have to eat foreign food unless you want to."

            "Dean!" 

            "I'm just trying to look on the bright side, Mustrum."

            The Patrician tapped the Archchancellor's shoulder. "May I enter the circle?" 

            The wizards parted for him. Isabella still stood with her hands limp at her sides, staring at nothing. In case the Patrician hadn't caught everything, Ponder explained it all again. About the magical properties of silk from worms that had wriggled out of the cloister of the Monks of History, and the consequences for Isabella, who was a reflection – or more accurately, a new original -- of the lady who'd admired herself in the gown in a mirror in another world.  

            The Patrician thanked the wizards for their help, guided Isabella to the carriage and took her back to the Palace. She said nothing along the way. He took her up to her room and called a servant to bring tea. She drank a cup in silence. He asked her if there was anything he could do and she shook her head. He asked if she wished to be alone. She nodded. He left her alone but took the key to the door and called a couple of servants to stand by in the hall in case she needed anything.

            He checked on her an hour later. She hadn't moved from her chair.

            An hour later, the same.

            He kept the interval until evening. She was lying in bed, her cheek on her arm, staring at the iconograph propped up on the night stand. Vetinari filled a sack with mirrors and any potentially hazardous objects, including matches, he could find in the room. Two new servants stood by in the hall overnight.

            For a couple of days she barely moved from her place on the bed with the iconograph in her line of sight. When the servants checked on her every hour at the Patrician's order, they never got an answer when they asked how she was doing.  She didn't hear them; streams of verse tangled with images in her mind. She didn't eat or drink what the servants brought in. She didn't move when the Patrician visited briefly in the evening and did a sweep of the room again, removing any sharp objects he'd missed the first time around. He personally nailed the window shut.

            On the fourth day he showed up in the morning with blank paper, dull quills and ink, which he left within reach of the bed. That night he found each and every sheet covered with verse interspersed with random sketches of architectural impossibilities – pyramids balanced on their apexes, glass domes dug into the ground, a wing of an Istanzian baroque palace thrust out of a waterfall. She was sleeping when he collected the drawings. The servants reported she'd eaten a little.

            On the fifth morning he found her awake, bathed, dressed, drinking coffee alone in her room. He didn't ask her how she felt. It was a ridiculous question. The answer was on her face. He set more paper on the table and said, "I believe you'll have a visitor later this morning."

            "I don't want visitors."

            It was the first thing she'd said since the ceremony at Unseen University. Her voice had a similar faint, brittle quality that the Patrician's had after his first talk with Klieg. 

            "Wait and see," he said. He kissed her on the forehead twice, lingering for a moment the second time.

            Later in the morning, a drawing of the Tower of Art rising like an upside down obelisk from the center of the Dysk Theater was interrupted when the bedroom door opened. 

            Mrs. Capelli didn't get far into the room before she fell on her knees and offered up a prayer to Io. Isabella didn't have the strength to pull her mother to her feet so she knelt with her. They spent the day on the floor with handkerchiefs and tea, talking about what had happened, about losing husbands and children. The Patrician didn't intrude.

            In the evening, he was working in the Oblong Office in the comfort of Margolotta's chair. His clerk Drumknott entered through the side door.

            "Miss Capelli and her mother are downstairs, sir. At the carriage."

            The Patrician nodded.

            "She has taken all of her things."

            "That is to be expected, Drumknott."

            Lord Vetinari signed another document, set it aside, and pulled the next off the pile.

            "I gave her the papers you left for her but she didn't look at them, sir."

            "She will. One must have patience."

            Drumknott stared hard at his master. He usually interpreted the wishes and moods of the Patrician quite well, but this was an unusual situation. The details were hazy, but Drumknott knew from observation over the past weeks that Isabella Capelli had not been the typical house guest.

            "Sir, I'm--"

            "If you are about to offer me words of sympathy," said the Patrician without looking up, "Let me assure you that they are unnecessary."

            "Is there anyth--"

            "Kind of you to ask, but no. I'm afraid there's nothing to be done." He scribbled his signature and moved on to the next paper.

            Drumknott gave up. He slipped noiselessly out of the office.

            The Patrician continued to scan and sign the documents that needed to be signed. For the moment, there was nothing else to be done.

Epilogue

            About five weeks later, he was using his walking stick to tap at a stone wall in a room down the hall from the Oblong Office. It was a large space, formally used as a conference room when there were too many participants to meet in his office and not enough to justify repairing to the Rats Chamber. Several of the walls contained massive paintings from the ancient series by  Pacinini entitled, "On Good Government." Unfortunately, these would have to be moved.

            The Patrician's stick tapped the turnwise wall.

            "Remove this, please, Mr. Simper," he said.

            Mr. Simper, a man with wiry hair like a white halo around his head, scratched his beard with the back of a pencil. He held a clipboard in his hand and was wondering if lunch was to blame for the distressingly fishy smell emanating from the Patrician. "Are you sure, your lordship? That's an outer wall. It helps support the weight of this part of the Palace."

            The Patrician's stick whipped around to point at a red "X" chalked on the floor a few feet away. "The first of eight supporting columns will be installed there. Klatchian lotus capitals, please." 

            Mr. Simper counted the other chalkings that he now noticed on the floor at strategic points around the room.

            "There are only six marks, your lordship," he said.

            Limping slightly more than usual, the Patrician went up to the hubwards wall, which separated the conference room from a mid-sized storage room on the other side. He tapped it with his stick.

            "Remove this also."

            "But, sir--" 

            "Your two missing marks are on the other side."

            "But--" 

            "Is there a problem, Mr. Simper?"

            Mr. Simper was an architect, not an architect like Isabella, but he knew a thing or two about buildings and he was worried about the possibility of collapsing part of the Palace. There would surely be trouble for that, even if Lord Vetinari himself had ordered the work to be done. He doodled nervously on his clipboard.

            "What do I do after we take out the turnwise wall, your lordship?"

            "Glass, Mr. Simper."

            The doodling stopped.

            "Pardon, sir?"

            The Patrician moved stiffly to the center of the room and paused where the conference table had stood until he'd had it removed that morning. He leaned on his stick, his left hand rubbing the knuckles of his right.

            "The room is too dark. You will install a window from there," he nodded at the rimward edge of the wall, "to the hubwards wall of the storage room. You will be allowed a single supporting column in the center."

            "That'll be two massive windows, your lordship!"

            "The Glassmakers will be in this afternoon to measure the space. They seemed anxious to rise to the challenge when I personally spoke to them about the windows this morning. I will leave it to you to decide how to install their creations."

            Mr. Simper sagged. He was not enjoying the mental picture of two monumental sheets of glass slipping out of the hands of his workmen and shattering in the garden below. 

             "Is that all, sir? Just the walls, windows and columns?"

            Lord Vetinari scratched his chin with the silver knob of his stick, his gaze at the ceiling. With dread, Mr. Simper looked up too. The ceiling was of dark wood carved with an intricate geometric pattern.

            "Mm, I believe that is all. For now." The Patrician limped to a side door on the widdershins wall. "You have some time to complete the renovations, but I would not dawdle if I were you."

            The door opened into a narrow passage which connected to a side door of the Oblong Office. The Patrician crossed over to his conference table, where a large sheet of drafting paper, much folded and in places stained with tea, was spread out, the corners flattened by pyramidal paperweights. In precise pencil strokes, various views of what looked like a plan for a massive iron and wood arch were sketched across the paper. Tiny, mirrored writing explained the materials, scale and usage. At the top of the page, in the non-mirrored handwriting of Leonard of Quirm, was "Protective Shield for Workers Digging a Tunnel Under the Ankh." 

            There was ink writing on the plan as well. A few comments and questions written here and there in small, hesitant letters. Then longer thoughts recorded more boldly, connected with one schematic or other by arrows. One comment in particular had inspired Lord Vetinari to call in Mr. Simper.

            _Need aged oak for the wood slats and built-in ventilation to the surface. – This could work._

            A courier had delivered the schematic to the Patrician the day before. Lord Vetinari had expected Isabella to keep it a while longer, but she obviously thought Leonard should have it back to make some corrections. She'd written a total of twelve questions about his design. Eventually she'd want to know the answers.

            And when she got them, she would doubtless have an opinion on the construction of the tunnel shield prototype. And she would certainly want to assist in the testing phase. Assuming the design was a success, someone would need to oversee the construction of the full-sized shield. Bids would have to be called for. Surveys would need to be done of the best place to dig a tunnel under the Ankh. Timetables and budgets would have to be made. The project would have to be presented to the City Council for something resembling approval.

            That was a good deal of work. She was going to need an office. A spacious one with lots of light and drafting tables and shelving for the display of models and prototypes and a comfortable corner for meeting with her staff. 

            The Patrician eased himself with a relieved sigh into his chair. He inked a quill and paused, the tip hovering over a fine sheet of parchment embossed at the top left with his family coat of arms. He'd begun writing her a week after she left, one short letter a week, which he reasoned was not so often that it seemed he was being intrusive, yet often enough that she would know she was not far from his mind. He envisioned the letters as guideposts. They were always delivered on Fridays at 5 o'clock. She could set her watch to it. Perhaps it would help her to have something she could count on. She hadn't written  back yet, but that wasn't the point.

            He flexed his fingers, then touched quill to paper.

            _My dear Lady Isabella,_

_            I've taken to walking, at first in various parks and public gardens, but now in locations throughout the city. There is something calming about passing through the streets at three in the morning, when on certain nights even the Shades takes a breath and settles down to sleep. Last night I went down to the harbour where the fishermen were hauling in the night's catch. One of the larger boats was short a man; the first mate called to ask if I'd like to earn my breakfast with a few hours' "manly work." He didn't recognize me, of course. During my short education as fish hauler, I learned that the trick to carrying live fish is to anticipate the manner of the creature's wriggling. A tuna, for instance, wriggles differently than a swordfish. Know the wriggle and you have your fish. I found this astonishingly close to my experience with land-based creatures. At dawn, I was rewarded with a herring breakfast, which I fed to the stray cats that paraded behind me on my way back to the Palace. Everyone I've met today, including Vimes, have looked like they wanted to ask why I smell of fish. I would have said if anyone had asked. I am quite disappointed no one did._

_            I will not burden you, dear Isabella, with which of my muscles and joints have plagued me with pain today because the list would be long and it was my fool choice to try manual labour for the first time since --  I do believe that was the first time ever. It is refreshing to know one can have new experiences at my age. May future ones be as instructive (and less aromatic)._

_            Please pass along my greetings to your mother. Leonard sends his, and his thanks for the suggestions and comments on the tunnel plan. Revisions are underway. He looks forward to the day when he may discuss them with you in person. As do I._

 

END

** Whew! It's over!!! Hope you had a good read. For those of you thinking – hey, I never saw the mirror thing coming, I dropped a lot of hints throughout the story. My favorite was delivered by the Bursar in chap. 13. As for a sequel, I've obviously set up for one, though I don't know if I'll ever write it. I've got an idea for a plot and maybe I could make the story a bit more romantic, who knows, but IF I do it, it won't be as long as this (I hope)! Thanks so much for reading this. I've had great fun with you along the way. **


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